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Unconscious Controlled Critique

A state of subjugation so infantile, yet so disruptive, could the layers of conspiracy go further in its existence? Purportedly, a state media ran through the filter of difference and excitement leveling its own demise for short term satisfaction to the overlords, controlling our every thought and idea to the very core. Is this state ran media a consequence of governmental control, supposedly through the use of democratic means, that theoretically can be shifted determinant on public perception? Partially, yet the media runs further than what we believe it to be. As our eyeballs are ripped out of their sockets to give monetary incentives to this industry, it concludes a multiplicity of ideation that exists on its own, and wrapped around to affect the very authors themselves. Entertainment, as we uphold it, levels a perspective relevant to a minority of beings, centralized in a very few cities, and then controlled by a smaller few individuals within the business sector, and



The moment you look at yourself and realize you are becoming your ideal.

The look around yourself in astonishment, the belief it is happening.

The risks you've taken are a truth. The risks fastly make you stronger, and they are the ones that make you feel good.

You look at your bicep in admiration. You look at your eyes telling you that you've done it. It's finally happening.

The true question is if this is truly the end of your road, even though it's occured already. 

How could it be though, you still haven't accomplished what you wanted to?

Why do you feel empty after the accomplishment?

What is it you're doing to yourself? Why do you think torture is fun?

It is better to dance stupidly than to analyze yourself intelligently.

And it is better to love yourself than to die a hating scrooge.

But your eyes are telling you about that this must happen again.

How? You've worked hard, why must it happen again?

Because life will force you to keep up, and it is one strong ass motherfucker.

You look at your broken feet, you look at your brain lacking glucose, you look at your nose dripping with the lies you're telling yourself.

The task is a bruting one at that man. You fucked up trying.

You look at the task with fierce eyes and defeat it for more than eighty years. 

Yet your force wasn't good enough at eighty-one.

And you lie mouthing the words "it's been a good life."

But there they stand in front of you. 

The loved ones you've neglected. Who have felt they weren't neglected actually. If only they knew what it could've been like, maybe they wouldn't pretend to care about you.