The Opium Diary

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Stream of consciousness style writing about the perils of modern day.

Submitted: December 04, 2014

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Submitted: December 04, 2014

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~~Struggle is the masochist of all men and women who are not of privilege. Those who bear its awful uniform will forever hold disdain for the current moment, awaiting an apparition of a future, where not only logicality takes place, but also the decay of loath and incendiary transmissions which remain useless in current communication. The individual remains a nothing, and furthered growth of population worldwide does not cease the ever incapacitating unworthiness of that individual. Groups of men change the world, and we have been disbanded by such a group.
Distractions are abound and plentiful in this new era. Why write when you can watch, why read when you can listen. We have laid down our writing utensils and sacrificed that which provided our freedom originally.  We came to a point where it was decided that, what use was there in further experimentation, when we could simply listen to others experiments, and through no fault of our own, trust those experiments. Trust is perhaps one of the most valuable commodities we possess as a species, the ability to believe in what is said, without necessarily being given any concrete proof or reason for such trust.
One cannot be sure when it was that such absolute trust was founded between the state and the people. Though one can be sure that this misstep circumvented around the idea that we no longer needed to watch out for ourselves, that the hierarchy would be entrusted with such duties. Men forge their own path of forthright fortitude, children are we, naked as in infancy.
It may prove difficult, for any to fit themselves into the narrow corner that is affluent culture. Dismay can only be felt, for this atrocity has spread man-wide, just as man has spread wide. Base camp, where dawned the early fight, has turned its daggers inward and secured the prison status we had hoped to dodge entirely. Tiny pellets of lead fell from the sky as rain until we begged for a more affixed platform of instilled chastisement for our iniquity in culture. Beg as we did, we knew not the true punishment for our desire of enlightenment under the hand of the boar that lied speeches, and lay waste to densely teeming rats. Each hair was to prickle upward at the rising temperature of the waste sodden empire, with only distractions to unfurl the attempt of consciousness made by we. Solitary listeners without any idea of who would listen; separated are the grains of rice by the hand which guides the otemoto.


© Copyright 2018 Osiris Amadeus. All rights reserved.

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