You become only more grotesquely inhuman with time.
Sometimes you're the sacrificial lamb,
Sometimes you're the butcher.
It all adds up, like an infinite loop.
A pattern.
Math/art.
Your consciousness warns you to stay within the limits, you're scared of losing your mind.
"How bad can it be?"
"How much can it hurt afterall?"
You've been through worse, you've been to hell and back.
So you let the apathy and the indifference crawl into your skin, slowly, very slowly.
Remember the time you got jacked up on street drugs? Remember your reflection in the mirror as you were barely able to recognise yourself?
"Never again"
But you lie.
You keep waking up from the same nightmare and by now you've figured it out.
There is no escape.
It ends when you do.
So you succumb to the stereotype.
Build your walls so high, lock yourself in your castle of solitude.
Brick by brick, mechanical like a machine.
Memories cemented with so much pain and suffering.
You almost enjoy it don't you, you masochist.
It makes you happy, to cut yourself open and bleed like that.
'My pain is the only thing that makes me human.
Without it, I am nothing. My universe is a lie.'
"Let's watch the stars tonight."
You take his heart and break it, you have no intention of keeping him.
Oh you cruel little thing.
How dare you feel sorry for someone doing to you what you do to them.
Nothing changes.
You project only yourself onto others.
You are the only one, you are your salvation.
Your body is only a mere vehicle.
"Infinite"
"Deathless and birthless"
