Meritocracy

A Story by Degare

When I opened my eyes again, I did not know where I was. The world around me appeared simpler, a habitat for a unary beast, bedazzled by the flesh of clocks, Venn diagrams, numbers of insulin. My clarity strangles me undone, for I did seek to recuperate it and by it, a seamless weapon that would unleash me, the swamps from where I moulded with the earth.

It made sense to me, the notion I was controlled by a peculiar sexuality, something sinful and cutaneously curved, for I didn't have the means to express myself, and if I did, I would become narrower, lose all appetite for the verge of reddening. It was then that I realised that my soul has become tethered to immobile crucifixes and even worse, I had finally begun to enjoy it.

The setting is clear still: I do not know where I emerged from, but I felt nevertheless stale and neutral to this fact. I felt much joy knowing that I was indeed a machine, a machine of undulating sophistication and contraceptions all to overcome a certain thing, a certain shame, something that tainted me with perverse idealations of myself…god those imageries… and ghastly thoughts, they would unfurl in me like sentient little mice from Rachmaninoff pieces.

Having understood, love you possess such a skin of undulation, a hearty

Sink

A hearty prejudice wands through my slumber, my idealogue swims naked probing my identity… I lose consciousness, and it's excess and it's esctacy, love I will see you then after a month…you think I am all ill don't you, but it's just really like a little vac

Sink

Promise me you will remember me, your thoughts pool over my ankles and I blush…dead and I did.

Nature falls back to me, and I tense… Do these words threaten me… my individuality is not defined by my persistent effluence of erudition, but rather a funneling descent into a monotonous singularity.

I understand, I understand that I am a body that's better off without a soul, for the brandishing of my soul has cost me my agency, and my agency lucidly. In the sense, I carry it everywhere…to the showers, to the sink, and dwell redundant in my abode, an overdressed brass petal waiting for emblems of sunshine and mirrored rain instead of the real carnivorous thing. Rain is carnivorous and so is sunshine, and so are your eyes that have mixed and eloped with labour, the allayments from fruit, all of that just to dine me with a repellant sacrificial love.

I had lost the ability to dream too, and now they are replaced with the recurrent channels of morbidly coalesce as teary incarnations taking shape however amorphous they once did seem to me. The remains of dreams and their lurid stagnance is perhaps why this essence of fondue, glycemic fog has latched on to me and cherished from the wintering of my blood vessels, my loved ones, my insufferable indifferentiability.

Crying has been so far the easiest part. The silver acumen, the inner parts of my eye, that I am sure does nothing but reflect the indulgence of material I am indebted to, sentence me to partitions, detachments, whirlpools within ornamentals that are there to assure of your presence, but I confess…I wane Laxative, I syringe from an epidemic gut, and am processed…defragmented…

Lobotomized…

Stickmen.

Scarecrows.