Early-onset pathological tubedness. 15 posts omitted. Click reply to view.
Exhibit: a life withered away in an ineffectual attempt at dawdling over impractical fluff, now batted away only to be returned back to yet again. As this vicious cycle is crushed by a phantom vision of a life that once was, this illusion becomes as distant as it has ever been. Spatial awareness at this juncture is lost, or rather, is detached from the body; your home that used to be a vague childhood memory is now but a measly temporal abode that you're forced to occupy for a day, which becomes years, and years in turn become decades. The fragile archetypes imported from childhood and adolescence turfed up by tubedness, are now left exposed to the elements and open to interpretation. A person, so tubed, falls into a downward spiral of non-sequiturs, a spectacle both tragic and ridiculous to a casual observer. Thousands of mind's contraptions are ejected into the void without it being accompanied by any coherent speech. An intruder into the space of the Tube is engulfed by the warm sound of muffled vocalizations, which are clearly more than enough to fill the acoustic void.
A life for a Tube is a delirium with an inescapable need for the Other, a stream of grandiose mumblings delivered in a hope of finding a soul that will listen. They will sift through other minds in an attempt to find someone with an insight into mental breakage, someone who has triumphed over it, or who is as lost to the world as them. Time will watch them waltzing with entities they have discovered in a stuffy, overfamiliar room, each time like the first time. A Tube quickly forgets what happened yesterday but paradoxically preserves staggering awareness of the not-so-distant past, the day before yesterday. The very pace of time is threaded onto their early memories that were calcified into the major axis of their perception. A Tube’s petty gripes with memory and temporality renders their incursions into the machine of human affairs moot. Indeed, their acts are understood to be mere moves in a children's game designed to prepare for "the real thing". For a Tube, this game is never won.
its like you hacked my body into pieces and are complaining about the mess the blood and bones and fecal matter are making on the carpet
as if a tube could exist in a vacuum
maybe someone whose addictions were genuinely deleterious to their brain and health (addiction to hard drugs like ketamine or meth or whateve actually fries you) but you in your infinite spiritual decrepitude of the "gay scientist" (read as: rapist, mangler, molester of the body and the body's dignity) arbitrarily decided that even petty vices are tantamount to a spiritual and moral decay within the object of your experiment
Viices you yourself indulge in, wantonly, excessively, but maintaining your bullshit "soul of a poet" and so never sacrificing your egotistical framework that you are in fact a superior being and the objects of your experiments things to be spat on.
Its fascism, its mengele, its result biased bad science, its bad ART, its fucking rape.
stay mad that I murder your fascist brothers
at the end of the day for all their untubedness and supposed superiority they still died like fucking dogs
imagine if a person like him were to go through this hardship
if he were stripped of all the superfluous things that he thought gave him an identity
what would he be left with? is there any soul in that creature?Rated: 6/10