Penumbrae

People who grew up in poverty or financially unstable environments understand that there's something psychological that comes with it. In environments with poverty there's usually also dysfunction or rather poor social dynamics, and antagonism towards novelty. On the surface, the ratio of success between wealthy and poor families may narrow down to opportunities and privilege but I've seen countless situations where poor people put each other down enough that patterns stay consistent.

I need people to understand how sick narcissistic parents are. They will harm you without any second thought and turn to enablers to sustain their misunderstood victim image, they will twist mundane discrepancies into world politics to suffice their dysfunctional idea of wisdom, they will gossip about you with anything that moves, they will use virtue to their convenience at the expense of your perspective, they will proudly stand on toxic behavior, while infantilizing you, they will speak poorly of your future while simultaneously feeling entitled to your space. They will use your vulnerability against you. They do not change. I have seen grown adults stick around to finally be right and turn into instruments for favor. It's grim.

The reason why so many modern Christian churches are scams is because the circle has idealized its very existence in place of any tangible individuality, they've been told they hold a particular purpose by virtue of association, and ritualistic practice. Whatever sacrifice they make for the church is a rightful tribute to that privilege, the privilege of being morally proficient not in character but in conformity, the privilege of aggrandizement without intellectual self efficacy. The ironic psychological juxtaposition is that once people are convinced of their greatness upon such circumstances, their loyalty towards the established enterprise, becomes a mere abstraction, of a greater cause, the architecture becomes separate from all aspects of a social system "How can this be a sophisticated business if we are enlightened"

The delicate art of eroticism need not be sullied by the cloying display of disinhibited hedonism on the part of the artist. True seduction dwells in the premise of expectation, without reveal. It is vain to assume the mere abundance of sexual imagery, correlates by equal proportion to that of pleasure unless ofcourse there is a mutual deficiency in taste between the artist and the designated consumer.

There was something of the 'facies Hippocratica' to her ghastly mien, something that wrought in me an insurmountable timber of fear. Worn out lineaments woven into ambiguous mishap, and elongated otiosely without the prerequisite designs of proportion. Temples hollowed out, eyes much too large and lucid to comfortably endow a countenance so burdened with the meditations of impending death, lips shriveled with a vampiric crimson to their hue, and worst of all perhaps, a complexion so pallid that her visage seemed to have been buried in chalk. My terror was augmented hundredfold when she pulled the scanty raven hairs remaining on her sculp and proceeded to masticate them.

An immiscible composition of manifold elements for desultory measure, an experimental rendering for the sake of novelty. A motley purveyance of the grotesque for the actualization of human dysfunction. I have created the horrible from my own imagination, and now it haunts me, like the behemoth apparition of Frankenstein's monster.

I find myself pondering endlessly beyond what I would confidently surmise, as mere reminiscence, a sincere invocation of shadowy premise, but despite the fact that beyond the vapid fringes of memory there remains little to gather of my nostalgia, I seem rather obsessed with the commonplaces of the past. Perhaps it is the sorrow, growing on me, through the loneliness of sleepless nights. The languor of deplorable abeyance, the anxiety of restless thought, none of it makes sense. I feel as if I am waiting for death while counting my last days on this uninspiring terrain. The morning rays peer through my curtains with amber illumination, and I grimace at their augmenting cast, wishing that a shrewd death had crept over me, and snuffed whatever is left of my soul. I am alone, and so very lonely. It is only hunger that stirs me out of my bed. Hunger and an intolerance of the sun. I hear people on the sidewalk beneath, many of which bear that ostensible warmth of contentment in their strides. It is the contentment of those with loved ones or at least some abundance of money to ease manifold measures of suffering. If I leapt from this distance I would perhaps die, or at least subject myself to a suffering less abstract than my own. No matter, I have nothing to live for, the effect of the act upon any of these accounts, leaves me all the same. Dead. Even with this sentiment, I cannot designate those below me as living, with anything of a confident profession, for they come and go like specters. Perhaps I am lonely because I am a God, and these souls are merely fragments of my disappointment. Regardless, this noon will be my last. I have no regrets, and not a person in sight to extend a hand of commiseration.

Burdened by the insurmountable gloom of ancient sorrows, upon which the mind ponders incessantly, the heart remains devoid of the common leisures, pervasive to the oblivious. I have been conquered by the talons of anhedonia, and in time, I shall conquer my own desire to live.

Of the many obscene disinhibitions that cling to my soul, as if to draw from my very blood, a complete metamorphosis unto the stygian valleys of pristine beastiality, a violent plummet into the leisures of pervasive self destruction, it is the evils of debauchery that have found unconditional premise in my vessel.