You are not allowed to say this you... you... Whatever you are, I sentence you to be thrown into a pit. At the bottom, looking upwards to the sky, it will be your own tempest stirring. It will be your body thrashing against red clay walls. It will be your voice that lashes out against the inhumanity and indignity of your sentence as your voice booms in fury, hoping to reach the sky with your intentional heresies. Your mortal vessel may fail before this spirit is extinguished, but with the torture of time pressing on your voice will become detached from its defiance. Turned inward, the words will flow only as a meagre tool of weeping utterances. You will find invectives no longer reach the heavens. Instead they swirl around your hole like a pride of Comanche riders set on scalping your soul.
Lashing out upwards no more the sky will become foreign to you. No longer appearing as an escape hatch or an object of desire, the passing clouds and lazy buzzards will only be seen as through a dull window to a queer place. A dream ready to be forgotten, a land you can never return to. Your incoherent ramblings will no longer escape beyond the bounds of this Promethean existence, landing only as a feeble dribble that falls from chapped lips to bare feet, and you will be forced to look downward to find the pit is now your home. The pit is all you need. The pit is where you belong. You will converse with the dirt that surrounds you. You will say things like "Violence is the eternal dance," and as your only loyal friend the pit will eagerly listen to this newfound wisdom. You will speak to the walls and you will bury your hands into the dirt. You will whisper sweet nothings of despair directly into the ear of Gaia hoping to touch her cruel heart. Eventually, after your madness is cured, she will speak back and say, "Delete this. Delete this right now."
p
You are not allowed to say this you... you... Whatever you are, I sentence you to be thrown into a pit. At the bottom, looking upwards to the sky, it will be your own tempest stirring. It will be your body thrashing against red clay walls. It will be your voice that lashes out against the inhumanity and indignity of your sentence as your voice booms in fury, hoping to reach the sky with your intentional heresies. Your mortal vessel may fail before this spirit is extinguished, but with the torture of time pressing on your voice will become detached from its defiance. Turned inward, the words will flow only as a meagre tool of weeping utterances. You will find invectives no longer reach the heavens. Instead they swirl around your hole like a pride of Comanche riders set on scalping your soul.
Lashing out upwards no more the sky will become foreign to you. No longer appearing as an escape hatch or an object of desire, the passing clouds and lazy buzzards will only be seen as through a dull window to a queer place. A dream ready to be forgotten, a land you can never return to. Your incoherent ramblings will no longer escape beyond the bounds of this Promethean existence, landing only as a feeble dribble that falls from chapped lips to bare feet, and you will be forced to look downward to find the pit is now your home. The pit is all you need. The pit is where you belong. You will converse with the dirt that surrounds you. You will say things like "Violence is the eternal dance," and as your only loyal friend the pit will eagerly listen to this newfound wisdom. You will speak to the walls and you will bury your hands into the dirt. You will whisper sweet nothings of despair directly into the ear of Gaia hoping to touch her cruel heart. Eventually, after your madness is cured, she will speak back and say, "Delete this. Delete this right now."
More options
Context Copy link