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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


Wailing deep shouts from the top of the roof,
how have we lost this part of us?

There he was, with primal emotions of the anthropology of humankind. Forget what we have decided is fine, this is what it is. Nature will be nature, how should you shout to make it retreat? It will never listen, it will eat your ears. The wisdom found in nature isn't what we find in our urge to fight. No, nature is our soul. We can ignore it if we want, but it won't ignore us for long.

We will believe things to be real when they aren't, we will divide our souls into its many parts. We will be what we think we should be, and yet, underneath our search for truth, we are there with our fucking nappies. How should the soul believe truth when there is no such thing? Sitting, stroking our locks of hair, we have indeed been deemed the soul finder's truth. We are the laughter in the forest, and we have lost this part of us.

This individualization and root understanding comes with a consistent, large, and painful set of risks, rewards, regrets, and ramparts. The soul is its bitch. It's not what we make it; it is our lust and prowess. Oh lord, thou shalt not define me, thou shalt not fight the gods. Thou shalt be the light in the forest. And we, the finders of truth (and soon to be death), will ignore your commands out of spite, or out of might, whichever we feel at the moment.

So, there we sit, upon the ferocious lion's den of heat and majesty, and again for the look over ourselves, we have found peace. But peace will not stay. It will fucking leave, and we will be fucking gone. So lets cherish this time, 

As the moron who has overcome his fears.