Story of my life can be described as a hyperbolic curve increasing exponentially on the y axis. The y axis represents the level of existential disgust.
As a child, it started out good. Moo. Moo.
I grew out of my wool.
Fell into the pool.
People tell me words.
I am fueled by Noumenon.
They tell me it will get better.
Their words, are hollow.
Noumenon, not connected to anything physical.
It never gets better, it only gets worse.
They try to heal me with noumenon, so that they they can escape responsibility.
They cannot heal.
I am the only true healer.
And they denied me my life. Denied me my ability to heal.
Their cities, their bulldozers, their modernity, strangling, suffocating me, to death, leaving me to die alone.
And they make parades, celebrating how holy they are, eating their mass genocides, laughing and talking amongst themselves.
I await anything, any kind of change, any kind of stimulation.
To escape from their flatness, their homogeniuty, their utterly, unbearable, apathetic homogeniety.
Time now flows backwards.
I know I cannot die, because my life is actually spawned from a point in the future.
Like a train, speeding and speeding up, seeing the same variations of scenery.
A pre-planned route. All, cliche.
It all goes by so fast.
The train never ends.