Waiting

I'm entitled to my happy ending since I am not finished having fun being myself yet. I know most people can't relate, which is why they keep trying to make shady deals with The Devil in the guise of abused substances to steal my car, like Zack Fair tried to steal Cloud Strife.

I love me. The Lord loves me. Nothing can take that away.

The "real" world is so bleak, it's borderline inappropriate to express joy in public, lest you be descended upon by the "Police" and end up taking a knee to the chest, just to show that if you can't afford to pay a person not to take your breath away, you certainly cannot afford to laugh or wear sequins on a date ANYWHERE the air touches the ground.

So, I am due a continuation. There is no song named "Suffering" that The Lord has created and surely does not answer to; though the vultures who encompass the house of "Suffering" love to posture in that amorphous prostituting form, hating The Lord and call itself "The Man"

Since the time of earned antiquity, standing on one leg and hopping on one foot into a Sphinx's riddle, from the time of the abject destruction of Xerxes that created The Netherrealm, they cannot sell salt to a Butcher. 

Since time immaterial, suffering, no matter how many shapes it has shifted or times renamed, still isn't marketable, profitable or affluent. And, since the beginning of economical time or linear time, which is defined by alternative facts and is not cyclical; "The Man" have been planning to fail into the shape of a salted and razed landfill mass grave site of his collective gasping lifetimes of failure, amounting to a GHASTLY's (Igigi/Bijuu) amount of carbon footprints under a collective burial mound of ashes and dust that he would finally build his eternal resting monument after enjoying the entire tenure of these eons, on wheels, then legs, and never wings, since that requires defying a "gravity" source.

Procrastinating on the invention of the physical trait of the imaginary concept called "gravity" is the biggest success to peek over the event horizon of "The Man's" collective all-seeing "eyedentity" for the past 5000 years in a static, ever-rising, kind of way. To this day, they are doubtful of gravity's existence at the peak of scientific achievement, asking "What is consciousness?" since being awake is a such a perfect dream-realm fantasy that no one can tell the difference anymore.

Moving on to a reality that makes perfect sense, such as my personal psychological residency in my own self is chronically met with taut fists grasping at breath and physical frustration at these nebulous, interpretive, abstract and surreal physical concepts named "gravity" and "time". That "She has thwarted us yet again" over the confusing medium of a full-stop period, called Terra Firma, for the past eon; First in the sky, then on the concept of a thing called "ground", then at the very end the pursuit reached inside her own mind, and her own soul on her real estate she owns in Hell and into the dream-realm of the sub and unconscious places that are all currently in the process of being colonized as soon as the colonizer can get wristbands. 

They all, loyal deserters, await orders from a trusted somebody with a face and hands that they have all seen and met within at least the past 1000 years or so, pattering at that threshold of "alternate" reality as if it's the only vagina that ever mattered, psychologically leaving humanity a collective frustrated and entitled incel of a virgin whose lost innocence is so hard-earned, only their salary can define self and it is supposed to look, to me, as delectable as a chimera created like the human centipede, in a line as long as the still locked door has been there. 

As long as it has always been locked, all they ever have done is scream and wait for it kindly to unlock for "Abracadabra", and it's working so far to the point of immortality having finally been given as a reward for excellence in human childbirth and rearing being the highest attainable achievement right next to orgasm. 

Meaningfully; The birth of Vishnu after the advent of "humanity" however far in born any "hundred-year-blip" is concerned, probably happened at least one perfect time; oweing to sorting through a pit of skeleton keys to the souls of a trillion men who were birthed and died to come and go on Earth. So it would only stand to reason that fighting for the right to fuck harder and faster than ever toward a kibble-eating, litter-bearing future and renew the woman's establishment of pussy power, in the Biblical boon of joyously suffering childbirth as a hard-earned rite of passage, would be employed to underscore the fact that all men are created subjectively equal, and to put men in their place; a constant reminder that even lying flat on her back for a lifetime, the feminist deserves respect and praise for choosing suffering to elevate her mind.

According to feminists that began the book of Genesis by reaching down into Earthrealm (her womb) for the desire of an unborn vision/visage of Vishnu to gaze lovingly upon her as a lover before the invention of "sons", the horny, hot-blooded fever dream desire for human birthing as a way of Pokemon-like evolution is the only thing that can bring the species, according to women-run Pfizer labs, collective orgasmic Nirvana as an all-encompassing warm and fuzzy feeling of the perineum splitting in suspended breathing, so she can finally share the birthing miracle with every father who ever volunteered the lie he would do it for her if he could. 

A tantric exercise in breathing in your "conscious autopilot" existence with every gender reveal, turned to squeals of delight and cries of joy where every fetus makes human mother a new type of Queen ant who defies death with birth and every breath is a labor of orgasm bringing forth new life shrieking, carnal and volatile and every woman will be a Queen because it's her job to create Vishnu (Again, of course). Otherwise she would have been born a son.

So, by all means continue commuting every day to the smug stench of every supervisor very intentionally torturing you with their morning coffee breath grinding into the fleshy spots where their wisdom teeth should be, assaulting, taunting and grinding into you like a gamey steak after your daily toil, as if to suggest you "could do better" if only they weren't them and you weren't you.

Sleep on it. Wake up tomorrow and do it all again for free for another eon of sexy childbirth.

 When you finally find panic as a special kind of attack that only your type of slime can do, reflect in awe as every scream comes out a yawn and when the collective heads of the reflective-less monster that claims to be the architect of all meaning seek to turn inward, if only for a moment of peace for them all to whinge like effete abortions seeking the voice of God as consciousness for comfort or mercy, be reminded that you were only ever simply heads born shrieking and tearing out of the neck of the perfect final forever form of your new completed immortal carnal body that collectively renews with each new birth populating a new spot on it's puckering and erupting slick, pock-marked, oozing meat surface, complete with all the magic of blood, saliva, tears, urine and of course, feces; A perfectly infinite sustainable universe created for everyone who can afford to not have to smell it will finally be within reach. As per "The Man"s perfect planning.

Every empire that has risen and fallen to Mankind's erogenesis was only harmlessly meant to redesign the word "human/child/man/woman/slave" to mean "toilet" And since the monopoly on semantics are now, simply claimed hashtags; you can own words and you can change their meaning, too!

This is a beloved game of everyone with an acute superstition of a thing called death, and the alchemical structures of their established "immortality" has been extended as a lifeline to heaven for anyone who especially loves "Yahtzee" as a perfect model for a civilization strategy game. It extends to whatever currency has value and grows more valuable, over time, with the eternal trusted face on it- the one we all know. Everyone knows who the grand architect of civilization and timeline planning is, and that is why order reigns supreme in waking real life, everywhere in all times on the line. Because time is not a cycle in this current definition of the word of "face" or "value", but it's name is money, so all that's known is that meat worships it.

Unfortunately dollars started to stink like dead fetuses, so now, Bitcoin smells as heavenly as the hygienic child porn it launders, making sure those greedy child laborers mouths get fed to keep them shut as is their pornographic right. 

Just don't stop fucking. There are new pharmaceuticals to oil your creaky arthritic hips, to make you horny AND to give you the energy needed to complete the actions to tear through an old perineum, inventing a brand new one to split and name it anything but Vishnu.

The right to pursue an immortal eternity of seeking immortality in a loopless linear timeline that starts with the father and starts again with his son as his father forever belongs to everyone as a pursuit of passion. It certainly keeps hope alive on life support as an economical model that values the sick over the dead in terms of insurance premiums down to the vehicle, I mean coffin, I mean life insurance provider choice.

Vote for Anyone to keep this sustained model of reality for the forseeable future. 

Every day you're a winner of Samsara. 

Smile.

Somewhere just around the corner, a sweet joy is waiting to pleasantly surprise me.

In a place where mercy isn't free anymore.

The roads are clean because trash doesn't exist.

Taxes were paid involuntarily suffering at the behest of a Hydra for millennia that finally festered itself into a sore of puckering pus turned into the falling grains of dead eggs through an hourglass

Without giving precedence to any sinister thoughts, like paranoia, I will pry open a wedge ever larger for the warmth of the whimsical to pleasantly surprise me with each new day

And The Lord's wonders shall never cease to be experienced or appreciated with anything short of awe and amazement.

Then, and only once peace is a firm foothold in a landscape that is no longer fickle, but fertile with possibilities, a real man will  arrive to sweep away my sorrows and build anew, the aspiration toward a domestic livelihood that was never attainable while Samsara wept.

I imagine him riding up on the back of a Carousel horse through the tall wildflowers, with ice cream, just to court me. Or offering me his umbrella on a particularly "unlucky" day in which the Lord's designs might have a meandering effect that end in the surprise of finding the love of my life.  That will be the day when I could finally question "What is reality or consciousness?" in a suspended state of bliss. How ungrateful it would be, is why I never would look, even a hard-earned a gift horse in the mouth.

I don't ask why God has forsaken Hell or any of its Hellion interlopers. And in being realistic, I am not so naive that I can hold open the hope for the possibility that ANYONE (Now and here on Earth) could POSSIBLY be surprised in this reality to find the perfect love of their life. It is NOT POSSIBLE.

It's more possible to find every human being you literally share a soul with, if you are so abundant as the constellation of Pisces, than it would ever be to find true love amid 10 billion fragments of souls and counting; of primordial immortal beasts who were already ugly to begin with, being finally refined into something worth looking at only after 10 thousand years of rebirth smoothed it out to look like a celebrity and still sound like a Pterodactyl.

A fairy tale book (Pushpaka) is flying across the universe at an accelerated speed with "The more you Know" radioactively sizzling a rainbow of squandered imagination behind it, before it's due to shatter on the edge of the threshold of space/time AKA storyline any day now; Finally proving that the Calculus limit does, indeed, exist and ultimately bringing this disastrous meandering tale of no one in particular to a mediocre, yet loud and struggling close. One more kick here and a scream there will remind the ancient elder gods that you lived before you died. As long as they remember your kicking and newborn colicky shrieking forever, Humanity can forever be remembered as kicking and screaming for all time.

To be content in the torturous designs of dead men, is a fools errand worth dying a trillion suns over. 

I curse thee to fulfill exactly that purpose in your conscious contribution to the grand design.

A purpose every human soul is entitled to die on the hill of, or forever hold their peace as enforced silence, by Death's Hand or any means necessary.