The Self Illusion

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is basically the way i see things that i come across in life, especially the behavior of parents and of boys. This is my views however...

...don't follow a lead
that never existed.

Submitted: September 28, 2006

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 28, 2006



[See what you want to see…] 

I have come across a concept called “see what you want to see”…and this blindness frightens me. How can one choose not to see merely for the sake of keeping one’s own mind sane and unblemished…free of sin and reasons without motivations? Where will blindness lead when one does not want to see? Where will the road take you if you refuse to see what you are doing to others? See what you want to see… hear what you want to hear…but know that my pain will not fade…it will not grow to be less over time. In your actions of not seeing, you are destroying the want of wanting to be there…


No one is as blind as the one who doesn’t want to see…not even me in struggling to grasp the nature of my existence.


Your anger leads to my pain…your fear to my rejection…please do not fade from me because I am merely me without reason and justification, without want and need. But in being I have accepted the urge to want…and to need. You blindness has driven me to need what is beyond me, to want what don’t understand. Your blindness has shown me away to live in illusions where I create people that would listen…but in the end they are not real. In the end it’s my own stupid justifications that scream at me in the corridors of my mind.


One day I will kill them all. Because you are blind.

  [The Disillusioned Heart] 

In sacrifice we are meant to know nothing and see nothing. To acknowledge no one’s existence and to be angry because there isn’t anything to see. In loving another, there is some sacrifice of the soul. No love is without rejection just as no anger is without cause. But in having love, and in being in love, and in loving, there is a new road that each of us must pave with the reasons we our self have. Love is free, even when it is subject to sacrifice. Live life and love the one.

  [The Blister of a Self]

In a blister lies the truth of growth. In a blister lies the rules of how to live in a world where everything is forbidden. In a house lies the wisdom of how to make yourself keep going. In a house lies the dark hatred of temptresses and murder, of solitude and certain death, of end without new beginning. In a family there lies the honesty of making others keep going. In a family lies the rules of how a daughter must despise her mother, how a son must destroy his father. In a sibling lies the eternal anger of better than the world. And in a sibling lies the dark redemption of a blackened soul.


In having freedom and free blisters is the truth of the art of learning and growing. In having blisters there is the understanding that some things will hurt while others will cause pleasure. In having happy surroundings to build the house in lies the wisdom of understanding that things done is consequences gained. In being happy in a house lies the realization that hatred is less and love more, solitude is good but social is better and in the end there is always a new beginning. In an understanding family lays the honesty of understanding everyone. In a comfortable family a daughter is taught not to despise a mother, a son not to destroy a father. In having considerate siblings there lies the moment of being able to share without anger. And in siblings lies the temptation to be friends until the end.

 [The Bastard Child] 

I’m stuck in the widow’s trance where hope is the end of mankind and where the birds are left to rot on the leave bedecked floors of a decayed world. Nothing matters. No one son, no one daughter. Not life, nor death. Nothing matters. We live the illusion that happiness is alive. But happiness is a bastard for it exists to take away.

  Sleeping with Suicide

I feel myself locked in a cage where the bars of my cell are made of veins and the floor beneath my imprisoned feet is the heart of the one I love, pumping the blood of his life away from my struggling cries. I want to let go, only to keep myself from crying the tears of true love. I want to surrender to the beauty of the blood beneath my flesh, to taste the kiss of the cold lips of steel. I want to stare into the eyes until my blood floods the vision of the one I love. I want to hold his pale white hand, wrapping our embrace in chains.


I want to watch the film that plays off in his heart, where the thoughts of his mind wander like strangers in a forgotten land. But I cannot see the pictures, but I know what I must see; I am gone from his life and his thoughts make me the ghost of his past. I want to escape from inside him so I don’t have to see the wall of the blood chamber crumble down and flood the delicate chambers of his mind. I want to escape because I don’t want to drown in his life.


Why can’t they understand the things they are denying…


In illusions we witness darkness and then we are kept in the chambers of the Devil and we live without redemption. May we live the illusion that the soul is still alive?


In asking questions we strive to receive answers and when there is nothing we fall back into the illusion of darkness and we return to the act of being nothing.


In blackness and in earth; underground and dark; the dead sleep with the worms. Are all of us dead? Or is life an illusion too?


Illusions are the food of the world. Whatever you don’t want to believe is an illusion to the eye. Rather that the eye is lying than to believe the horror of reality.

 [The Last War] To fall in love is to resurrect the dead. Instead of leaving them where they lie, we call them back to a world of pain, of disaster, of emptiness, of wants and needs, of love. And in the end we punish them for actions committed of which we know nothing. Let the body’s hit the floor and leave them where they lie.  Hurting is never easy. Being hurt is the most terrible, most controversial thing that will ever happen to every human being. Even to those above our level of intelligence, or below. We will all get hurt. But instead of lying down to face it as it comes, stand up and believe it will not hurt as much.  We should never believe that hope is one long scar, because it is not. We must believe that there will be a better day, that if things where meant to be, then things will go as we want. There is no injustice done in believing in Fate, no injustice done in helping Fate along.  No injustice done in loving, even if it hurts so much. Falling in love is a very subtle, dangerous issue. You never know what attracts you to that person, and it is the subtlety of that attraction that drives you to believe this is not a mere infatuation. It’s the mystery of being attracted to someone so ordinary that you believe them to be above you level, attracted by a person so unusual that you are afraid of that very feelings inside that they awaken.  And then we fear above all the pain of being hurt. Scorned. By love. “Nothing worse than a woman scorned,” Return to where you dwell, run away from pain, hide from the hurt. But in the end it’s all the same. You will be found. There is no one that can say they have never been hurt. Pain is so much apart of our society that we hardly notice its existence anymore. It’s the cold heartedness of pure redemption for the wicked soul, when you know there is no redemption for the damned.  Love is the being blissful ignorant of pain. Love is the one thing that can lift you up, and bring you down so low, you smell the vileness in the gutters, feel the horridness grown on your skin, on your mind, in the blood ridden trenches of your war.  -Laugh out load- Love is The Last War.  [Love’s Suicide] 

My face burns when I see the body of love lying in the street. Limbs twisted to perfect the unfortunate moment Fate provided to the human sight. Her face was all bloody and her wings were clipped. The world was drowning in feathers.


She fell from a twenty story building, flying down the side to speak to the city one last time. Her voice was lost to the freedom of the civilized mind. No worshipper ever trudged the road from the door to the altar of her temple on the east side of the world. They forgot her like a cheap memory, never binding what was real to forever flow down the rivers of civilization.


People didn’t believe and she wasn’t there. The murderer sat on the top of the building, laughing at the chaos a body made, laughing at the sight of insanity when believer and non-believer came together to shout at each other about the visible sight.


She wasn’t there. And she never will be again.

  [Drowning in Love] 

In a world, washed cold by the sudden snow of losing a strong survivor, love steeps her bloody footprints on the sea shore. She cries her strong tears, staining the ground with sadness and rejection. There is no one that can hear her call out when the killer steps close to cut her white throat. There is no one that can dry her tears before she floods the world.


She is alone, taken out of the lives of the world’s survivors. Her anger runs in anonymous stupors down the buildings in the old world. The world is drowning in disease and hate and anger. Love stands on the street corner, like a dying whore, watching the flood of her blood spill over the roads and down the drains. It will drown the world.


Don’t let love die. The world will end, and each of us with it. Don’t forget her, but cherish her thoughts like a smitten lover.

  [Death’s Invitation] 

How strange the world is. It goes around in circles; being the smallest when you enter the world as a baby. And then it grows ever bigger as you start to face the decay of mature reasoning, as you start to face the darkest blackest thing you’ll ever face: responsibility. How strange the world is, going around in circles from the time we’re born until the time death starts to decay our very bones. Until death comes and takes us to his vault of decay, his dungeons of torture where your very soul will be torn from your body. To Hell, where every one of us will fight to stay alive among the dark obstacles Death has placed in our sandy and never ending path. Death is a struggle to stay alive, to keep your soul.


Yet Death is beautiful. Death is strong like Roman Gladiators; like a King’s elite guard; like Alexander’s Knights, like swordsmen, like fabled hero’s in a thousand different books of fantasy. Death is beauty and therefore it is strong. Not many can resist his call for very long, none can deny his last invitation to go to your own silent sleep. To defy Death is virtually impossible, so instead you except the invitation. Death’s invitation, masked as a beautiful thoughtful night of romance, when instead it’s the darkest invitation you’ll ever except: you’ll be riding your dead horse on the road to Hell where you’ll be excepted and thrown in a Grand Vault where you’ll sleep with the Devil and all his Lost Souls. Are you up for the journey, my friend? Are you really willing to take Death’s Hand now? Think again. Suicide won’t earn you any favors. Death will still take your soul.

  [And love is death…] 

And love is sacrifice and it is death. And it is pain and confusion; rejection and suffering. But it is also life. Because it hurts, because it can feel, it is life.

 [And in darkness there is no light…] 

And in darkness there is no light and no life. No love. Where then will we go to find the food we desire; the essence of our beings; the light away from the darkness? Where will we go to find love?


Is this a dream? If it is, please don’t wake me from this high. I’ve become comfortably numb.

[The Sinners Dream]

I came to bed half an hour ago and the sheets were white and fresh. I lay down, breathing rhythmically until the sobs subsided. Then I was in a pool of my own blood and I screamed without a sound. Now, I am falling in my dream and I finally hit the ground. My organs are laid to waste on the gray concrete beside me and my heart keeps on beating. Where is my soul? I am being sucked through the dense particles of a sidewalk and I am falling again. My flesh is burnt to cinders and my white bones struggle to withstand the eternal inferno. Am I to die without my soul? The devil stands before me, screaming at me that I am a sinner. He laughs when he sees my pain. I have no one to free my sins.


My strength is overcome by pain. I have nothing. How can the heart keep on beating when the soul is gone? I can’t hide anymore. On the outside I look fine but in the inside I am dying.


© Copyright 2018 Lex The Damned. All rights reserved.

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