It burns me inside, scorches my insides.
I gave up my activity, let the world slip away, and took up the call. To work, to slave, to toil. I learned that *work* means when you haven't eaten all day, when you'd rather have condoms on your shoes then have to leave such a filthy place spotless, and you know you're almost done when you started feeling like passing out cold over three hours ago, and you're done when you wouldn't care if it was a landfill, because you would still collapse face first. That was the better part of helping in this business. Enough so much so that I know it, that the jobs we've had over the last couple years, are such a trivial breeze: it's trivial cleaning compared to what's already gone in the past.
Even at home, I've been treated no better then a slave, more is taken from my hide than is ever expected. Have I ever done anything, expecting a return? Maybe making a sandwich and planning to eat it too, but that's about it.
What am I, am I not human? Do I not breath, tire,stab me, and shall I not [eventually] die? It's inhuman. I am always expected to be of the machine, never of the flesh. Is it not where the difference lay?
What does it mean to care, what does it mean to me? It means everything. I'm drowning.
Before me, I see the question, but know not the answer. Oh, how many sleepless nights have we argued that? It seems as if, since the beginning of time. Nothing else have I ever feared, more than that question. Nothing. My insides are rent by it. Anything else, any danger, any pain, pales in comparison; risk of death or dismemberment, falls off the list.
What is the answer, will I ever know it? Or must I merely make one for myself, carve it out of my own bone and let it follow me down to sheol / That is where the future lay, somewhere well beyond the crest of the hilltops and beyond the moons gaze.
Fool ensnared, entrapped dolt! There is no way out but by the beat of the drums. In the side of my mind, I sense it repeating endlessly without ceasitation.
The roman, the arrow, the wing, the snake, or the jello, one of thine shall surely be my fate.
As my faculties slowly find again some structure, I think it probably best, if I note the above can not be parsed by normal human. Much is rife with multiple concurrent meanings, English ambiguity will never constrain them such, that much can be known of its [words] significance, without knowing also the many shades it may come from. Few if any know part of those, and none know them all, save that beyond the grave where all my secrets lay.
or in short, whether you think you understand anything written, you probably don't. I've always said my text reflects my brains structure, so much more so... when I'm in such a state of thought. No living soul can likely comprehend it correctly.