Post by brodie on Dec 8, 2018 10:11:03 GMT -5
it seems a shame to have to sneak to get to the truth. To make the truth such a dirty old nasty thing. You gotta sneak to get to the truth, the truth is condemned.
The truth is in the gas chamber. The truth has been in your stockyards. Your slaughterhouses. The truth has been in your reservations, building your railroads, emptying your garbage. The truth is in your ghettos. In your jails. In your young love, not in your courts or congress where the old set judgement on the young. What the hell do the old know about the young? They put a picture of old George on the dollar and tell you that he's your father, worship him.
Look at the madness that goes on, you can't prove anything that happened yesterday. Now is the only thing that's real. Everyday, every reality is a new reality. Every new reality is a new horizon,a brand new experience of living.I got a note last night from a friend of mine. He writes in this note that he's afraid of what he might have to do in order to save his reality, as i save mine.
You can't prove anything. There's nothing to prove. Every man judges himself. He knows what he is. You know what you are, as i know what i am, we all know what we are. Nobody can stand in judgement, they can play like they're standing in judgement.They can play like they stand in judgement and take you off and control the masses, with your human body. They can lock you up in penitentiaries and cages and put you in crosses like they did in the past, but it doesn't amount to anything. What they're doing is, they're only persecuting a reflection of themselves. They're persecuting what they can't stand to look at in themselves, the truth.
It didn’t matter how long I had been walking for, the pound of blood rushing through the soles of my feet, the endless pounding against that hard floor; the ache, drawing warmth from the outer recesses of my body. It didn’t matter, not one single inch of those miles walked, not once I reached where I needed to be.
I should introduce myself; and maybe under another circumstance, I would; but now is not the time, or the place, you see here we stand. Here I stand, at the door; heavy and thick, old oak that would not be knocked down should anyone try; not that they would, or should, if they know what lies behind it. So here I stand, hands trembling at my sides, afraid to lift and knock just once.
That’s all it takes.
But I can smell him, that old familiar scent, it draws me in, takes me back, to once upon a time when he lived in here too, with me. When it was not so many voices, just us too; he would wrap himself around me and that scent would tell me everything would be alright, I would have done anything for him… Have done everything for him, but it wasn’t enough.
“Leave then.”
Have you ever loved someone? Not childish romances, not the kind of love they make movies about and sell tickets too. No, not the reds and pinks kind of love… Have you ever loved someone so entirely, so completely, you no longer existed within yourself, that the love, this love, it became your truth, your very essence. Have you ever loved someone so fully that there is nothing you would not do for them; you would give you life for that love, not in defense, but merely because they asked…
This was the voice of that love, the sound of devotion and he was velvet smooth sound that wound its way around the depths of my soul and squeezed until it was black and smooth like marble. The dulcet tone of an angel, speaking the words of a prophet… I had known devotion and love at this voice, I had know pain and anguish at this voice… I longed to return to his graces, to feel the gentle patter of his breath upon my neck as he whispered words of our testament.
But I was not his anymore.
That was my truth.
Asking me not to break the rules of society is like telling your kid not to eat candy because it’s bad for him. The kid will continue to eat candy until you take it away, or until you prove why he shouldn’t. You also need to provide substitutes for the candy you have denied that child.
I was told often enough what was bad, but I was never given a substitute or the opportunity to try another world until I had already become so defiant and twisted, I no longer cared about someone else’s right or wrong. By then I could not see enough honest faces in the world to pattern myself after.
Your Bibles didn’t mean anything to me. A Bible had driven my mother from her home. The people you chose to raise me beat and raped me and taught me to hate and fear. From what I have seen throughout my life, the laws of the land are practiced only by the little guy. Those who have money and success abuse every law written and get away with it. I admit my reasoning comes from the wrong side of the tracks, but once these opinions are formed and reinforced a few times, it is hard to believe otherwise.
So even if I don’t shed a tear, I console myself: I had some help in becoming the person I am.
The room itself was dimly lit, candles; despite how dangerous they were given the surroundings, lit the way across the room to where he sat. Beautifully stretched and painted canvases adorned every last wall; the room itself cluttered with easels and the tools of an artist, thick, red sticking brushes and items to tables, the floor a little wet beneath her feet as she made her way through the darkness. He could feel her presence, she knew; she had not been back since he turned her away - since she had refused to believe the word of Father.
“Hello Sister.”
His tone was still like velvet, soft and warm it was as though his very lips caressed her skin where the words fell. A warmth in her form she had only felt around the presence of one, particular coward, wove its way through her muscles once again. Her fingers, flinched at her sides; she longed to reach for him, to touch him. But she did not, instead she slunk to the floor, sitting with her back pressed to the table, looking away from him.
“Have you missed me?”
He drawled out the words slowly, just the way he used to do. She found her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and she was unsure she could so much as take a breath - missed him… She had missed the safety and comfort of this room, the warmth of his fingertips upon her skin… His breath when they;
“Brodie.”
He pulled her back from her memories, her eyes closed still as she tried to feel where he was in the room; she knew he had moved. His footfalls were light but with purpose, he had never expected her to return, she had insisted she could do this herself; that she could make them see, that the word would be spoken without such heavy handed methods - she had, for a moment even believed that Z could be the one to lead the testament into this new world. But she had been wrong.
He was just as diseased as the others, just as weak; he was no replacement, just pieces, tiny pieces of something much bigger. She had wanted to show mercy, she had wanted to be more than screams in a basement, more than the burning hellfire that the words of a deadman had scorched onto their skin.
“Brother.”
She could barely gasp the word, they were siblings not of flesh but of soul, forever joined as one, no matter where she would go, he would always pull her back. He was the true prophet; he was the one who had the texts seared into his mind and inscribed on his human flesh, he was of body and mind dedicated to the cause her father had set them upon. A righteous cause, a path she had so needlessly strayed from.
“Tell me…”
His words sound almost as though they were tinged with sadness; he loved her still. She had left, on his word and sending her into the cold was the cruelest thing he had ever done; he wanted her to learn, to see how the world would rape the innocence from the bones of children as the shadows had done to her before he came; he needed her to see how they would strip her bare of all she knew - he had come, to protect her and in return, she had shunned his work.
It was that… Lingering anger at her rejection that drove his hand around her throat, pulling her sharply from the floor, a gasping breath from her lungs causing him to chuckle softly as he slammed her back down onto the table she sought to hide behind. The shadows would not protect her; they belonged to him and so he bore down, leaning over the face of his sister in arms, hand clasped around her throat and nails bearing into her skin until it popped like little cherries.
Pop
Pop
Pop.
He felt the warmth of her blood almost as soon as he smelt it, metallic and fresh, it had been so long since he had new material to work with that he almost forgot himself; it was only when he heard the rattle in that last breath that he was reminded to release…
“... are you ready now?”
There were no more words to say, as she lay back on that table, staring up in the darkness; the cold, hollow eyes of her bretherin, the only man to ever know her, to love her; she felt that resurgence as her heart began to pound once again; it was a simple sacrifice; she would give him anything.
Even her final breath.
And so she did not whimper or cry when the needle glistened in those candles flames; she did not wiggle or fight when its sharp, piercing end shoved into her skin, plunged through her lips and yanked TIGHT, barely a squeal from her, not a tear on her cheeks as he worked to produce his most wonderful masterpiece yet.
Such a pretty little doll she would be.
Look down at me and you see a fool;
look up at me and you see a god;
look straight at me and you see yourself
The truth is in the gas chamber. The truth has been in your stockyards. Your slaughterhouses. The truth has been in your reservations, building your railroads, emptying your garbage. The truth is in your ghettos. In your jails. In your young love, not in your courts or congress where the old set judgement on the young. What the hell do the old know about the young? They put a picture of old George on the dollar and tell you that he's your father, worship him.
Look at the madness that goes on, you can't prove anything that happened yesterday. Now is the only thing that's real. Everyday, every reality is a new reality. Every new reality is a new horizon,a brand new experience of living.I got a note last night from a friend of mine. He writes in this note that he's afraid of what he might have to do in order to save his reality, as i save mine.
You can't prove anything. There's nothing to prove. Every man judges himself. He knows what he is. You know what you are, as i know what i am, we all know what we are. Nobody can stand in judgement, they can play like they're standing in judgement.They can play like they stand in judgement and take you off and control the masses, with your human body. They can lock you up in penitentiaries and cages and put you in crosses like they did in the past, but it doesn't amount to anything. What they're doing is, they're only persecuting a reflection of themselves. They're persecuting what they can't stand to look at in themselves, the truth.
It didn’t matter how long I had been walking for, the pound of blood rushing through the soles of my feet, the endless pounding against that hard floor; the ache, drawing warmth from the outer recesses of my body. It didn’t matter, not one single inch of those miles walked, not once I reached where I needed to be.
I should introduce myself; and maybe under another circumstance, I would; but now is not the time, or the place, you see here we stand. Here I stand, at the door; heavy and thick, old oak that would not be knocked down should anyone try; not that they would, or should, if they know what lies behind it. So here I stand, hands trembling at my sides, afraid to lift and knock just once.
That’s all it takes.
But I can smell him, that old familiar scent, it draws me in, takes me back, to once upon a time when he lived in here too, with me. When it was not so many voices, just us too; he would wrap himself around me and that scent would tell me everything would be alright, I would have done anything for him… Have done everything for him, but it wasn’t enough.
“Leave then.”
Have you ever loved someone? Not childish romances, not the kind of love they make movies about and sell tickets too. No, not the reds and pinks kind of love… Have you ever loved someone so entirely, so completely, you no longer existed within yourself, that the love, this love, it became your truth, your very essence. Have you ever loved someone so fully that there is nothing you would not do for them; you would give you life for that love, not in defense, but merely because they asked…
This was the voice of that love, the sound of devotion and he was velvet smooth sound that wound its way around the depths of my soul and squeezed until it was black and smooth like marble. The dulcet tone of an angel, speaking the words of a prophet… I had known devotion and love at this voice, I had know pain and anguish at this voice… I longed to return to his graces, to feel the gentle patter of his breath upon my neck as he whispered words of our testament.
But I was not his anymore.
That was my truth.
Asking me not to break the rules of society is like telling your kid not to eat candy because it’s bad for him. The kid will continue to eat candy until you take it away, or until you prove why he shouldn’t. You also need to provide substitutes for the candy you have denied that child.
I was told often enough what was bad, but I was never given a substitute or the opportunity to try another world until I had already become so defiant and twisted, I no longer cared about someone else’s right or wrong. By then I could not see enough honest faces in the world to pattern myself after.
Your Bibles didn’t mean anything to me. A Bible had driven my mother from her home. The people you chose to raise me beat and raped me and taught me to hate and fear. From what I have seen throughout my life, the laws of the land are practiced only by the little guy. Those who have money and success abuse every law written and get away with it. I admit my reasoning comes from the wrong side of the tracks, but once these opinions are formed and reinforced a few times, it is hard to believe otherwise.
So even if I don’t shed a tear, I console myself: I had some help in becoming the person I am.
The room itself was dimly lit, candles; despite how dangerous they were given the surroundings, lit the way across the room to where he sat. Beautifully stretched and painted canvases adorned every last wall; the room itself cluttered with easels and the tools of an artist, thick, red sticking brushes and items to tables, the floor a little wet beneath her feet as she made her way through the darkness. He could feel her presence, she knew; she had not been back since he turned her away - since she had refused to believe the word of Father.
“Hello Sister.”
His tone was still like velvet, soft and warm it was as though his very lips caressed her skin where the words fell. A warmth in her form she had only felt around the presence of one, particular coward, wove its way through her muscles once again. Her fingers, flinched at her sides; she longed to reach for him, to touch him. But she did not, instead she slunk to the floor, sitting with her back pressed to the table, looking away from him.
“Have you missed me?”
He drawled out the words slowly, just the way he used to do. She found her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and she was unsure she could so much as take a breath - missed him… She had missed the safety and comfort of this room, the warmth of his fingertips upon her skin… His breath when they;
“Brodie.”
He pulled her back from her memories, her eyes closed still as she tried to feel where he was in the room; she knew he had moved. His footfalls were light but with purpose, he had never expected her to return, she had insisted she could do this herself; that she could make them see, that the word would be spoken without such heavy handed methods - she had, for a moment even believed that Z could be the one to lead the testament into this new world. But she had been wrong.
He was just as diseased as the others, just as weak; he was no replacement, just pieces, tiny pieces of something much bigger. She had wanted to show mercy, she had wanted to be more than screams in a basement, more than the burning hellfire that the words of a deadman had scorched onto their skin.
“Brother.”
She could barely gasp the word, they were siblings not of flesh but of soul, forever joined as one, no matter where she would go, he would always pull her back. He was the true prophet; he was the one who had the texts seared into his mind and inscribed on his human flesh, he was of body and mind dedicated to the cause her father had set them upon. A righteous cause, a path she had so needlessly strayed from.
“Tell me…”
His words sound almost as though they were tinged with sadness; he loved her still. She had left, on his word and sending her into the cold was the cruelest thing he had ever done; he wanted her to learn, to see how the world would rape the innocence from the bones of children as the shadows had done to her before he came; he needed her to see how they would strip her bare of all she knew - he had come, to protect her and in return, she had shunned his work.
It was that… Lingering anger at her rejection that drove his hand around her throat, pulling her sharply from the floor, a gasping breath from her lungs causing him to chuckle softly as he slammed her back down onto the table she sought to hide behind. The shadows would not protect her; they belonged to him and so he bore down, leaning over the face of his sister in arms, hand clasped around her throat and nails bearing into her skin until it popped like little cherries.
Pop
Pop
Pop.
He felt the warmth of her blood almost as soon as he smelt it, metallic and fresh, it had been so long since he had new material to work with that he almost forgot himself; it was only when he heard the rattle in that last breath that he was reminded to release…
“... are you ready now?”
There were no more words to say, as she lay back on that table, staring up in the darkness; the cold, hollow eyes of her bretherin, the only man to ever know her, to love her; she felt that resurgence as her heart began to pound once again; it was a simple sacrifice; she would give him anything.
Even her final breath.
And so she did not whimper or cry when the needle glistened in those candles flames; she did not wiggle or fight when its sharp, piercing end shoved into her skin, plunged through her lips and yanked TIGHT, barely a squeal from her, not a tear on her cheeks as he worked to produce his most wonderful masterpiece yet.
Such a pretty little doll she would be.
Look down at me and you see a fool;
look up at me and you see a god;
look straight at me and you see yourself