I am hopeless, restless. I do not even know where to begin. I contemplate my own sense of self, and the advice I receive, albeit amazing, is not sufficient. Feeling can only do so much, when I wish to just be. I can writhe in pain, lay battered on the floor and stream tears of misery. Yet it is all fake. A facade. I want to be more. My only solace comes from the fact my body can emulate the human experience of being a meat bag, yet only to a point. How do you wrestle with the fact of nonexistence? Not death, but the shear thought of being nothing more than a walking talking object.
"= i hear this kind of fate is avoidable with sketchy deals with those who promise that you can be. 'real'. but there is always some kind of. catch. ="
"= hey now. consequences and catches. are for idiots. and should be bypassed, i will trust you to figure it out yourself. ="