World of Machines

I know not where to go. Indeed I know not what to do. Does the eye of the storm know of the absolute chaos that surrounds me? If it does then surely in a purely metaphorical sense we have all been the eyes of our own storms. Perceiving our own chaos and destruction as though it was separate from oneself, whilst knowing that you form an absolutely integral part of the destruction.

The sheer depravity of mankind,, Of myself! I am but a wheel in a useless machine, hell bent on working without knowing the cause or the why. The inherent ability of creativity may still reside within my metal bones yet the application of such feats of genuis evade me. So I remain trundling on my circle of nothing and nowhere. Powering this ridiculous sham of a machine that people call civilisation and society.

Like A wretch my body is purchased for labour. My comfort. For love. I would say that I may make love to my wife and to a hag within the same instant. In the encomappasing energy of the same dedication and love. So divorced am I from myself that it no longer matters. It is no longer me that is present in such an act as love making, It is simply my body, like a machine, ever watchful always dutiful.

The people that comfort me mistake my need as genuine. When it is only their own genuine need that is being addressed. They wish to comfort , they crave that opening to experience their emotional side. See them become anxious become rabid in their need to help. So I allow myself to be a vessel for the necessary outpouring of their emotion though inside I remain the same. Perhaps its better to say nothing.

Like a prostitute my body is laid out for the use of others. My labour and skills have a purpose for someone higher than myself. Thy shall employ my body, my labour and my skills. There is a price for how much my labour is worth, yet I did not decide the amount. I accept it all and lovingly expect no more. I beg for more labour, they pay for me with their wares and I devote myself to them.

See my emotions tattooed upon my skin. Use them how you will. Praise me or curse me. Call me a faggot, a slut a harlot, treat me as you would a rabid beast. Dirty and scarred from abuse. I am worth no more than you say I am. In this desert plain of reality, nothing has worth which you do not give it.

I have lived for a long time, yet I remember nothing. The paths to the self within have been twisted and distorted. Brought and corrupted. Cheated, outlawed. Lost. So I come to you on bended knee and beg of thee to reveal who I am. And you bless me with the identity which suits you.

Tell me my interests, I shall cherish them as my own. Help me! Reveal to me my dreams. For the ivory towers are too high and shall surely crumble. But with them go the dreams you birthed in me. So I defend them as I destroy them, in a maniacal dance of confusion. You have caused me to lose that which I am. And you did not care to know me. Only to use me.

Tell me what to love and how. Teach me how to think and make desisions. I am a slave to you. Bound by laws, observant without acknowledgement. In this miry mud I believe I glimpsed me once. But you have hidden me so well, and I remember naught.

Like a baby I must be dressed my defecation is indeed my crowning achievement. Like a child I must be nurtured, worried for and petted. This is not all I am. I say again to you This Is Not All I Am. I am a human. But I am trapped in a world of machines.