Make your own free website on Tripod.com
Blog Tools
Edit your Blog
Build a Blog
View Profile
« October 2005 »
S M T W T F S
1
2 3 4 5 6 7 8
9 10 11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20 21 22
23 24 25 26 27 28 29
30 31
You are not logged in. Log in
Entries by Topic
All topics  «
MY LINKS
THE BASSTERDS
OTHER STUFF
MISSISSAUGA LIGHTNING
MORE LINKS TO COME
Life as a Bassterd...

Wednesday, 26 October 2005

THE DESTRUCTION COMPLEX
Everyday, whether you were up to 2 am to watch someone hit a homerun, or you were lucky enough to hit your head on a pillow at 9 pm, you wake up tired. Hurtling towards my prison at 100 km/h several hundred others surround me with their gloom and doom. I don’t wear a chain around my neck, not one made of steel at least. Mine is a polyester cotton blend reminder that I am not free nor will I ever be. A slave of my own doing maybe, or that’s what I am taught to believe. My warden is also my salvation. My captor is my provider. My guard is my only means of escape. My dependence is solidified by my desire to be independent. Freedom is only attainable through constriction. As hour after hour slowly go by my being is beaten, destroyed and shredded. At 5 pm all are dead. Human but lacking humanity. Like the rest I fight and push and shove to return to my only escape. My Nirvana. My Eden. My Oasis. It is in these few hours, minutes or seconds that the destruction ceases. My escape is tormented by outside forces. Messages from beyond my walls, words and numbers reminding me of my slavery. The dreaded responsibility of breathing, eating and shiting. The destruction continues, even in my igloo. But there is a moment. Before the homerun. Before the early sleep. This moment is the resurrection, the reconstruction of the destroyed self. It is the moment, luck would have it last for moments. It is the reason for the voluntary incarceration. The moment is air, food, water. It is. The destruction is a memory.


Posted by Bastard Boy at 4:49 PM EDT

View Latest Entries