The MACHINE

There is a machine, called culture. It begins with rules, and laws, and expectations. They rob you of yourself. Survival is predicated upon fulfilling these predetermined roles, for utility sake. We say, why reinvent the wheel? And I say, because the tire is better, because bearings are quicker, because we’re not reinventing geometry, the circle, we’re clarifying the circle, this fiction of the mind, into reality.

We are apart of a machine, we are not free. I am a slave.

Like a patient partially anesthetized on the table, I am awake for this surgery of the soul. My eyes have freed themselves from the tape holding them shut from this horrific spectacle. And I can see the doctors clearly in my periphery. I cannot move. I must bear the pain and watch them harvest what small piece of humanity I have left within me. Sometimes they gouge and gorge, other times they use precision cuts to pull this organ from me, this disease, as they call it, this disease called individuality, plaguing thinkers.

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