Editor’s note: Lovefraud received the following story from a reader whom we’ll call “Frederick19.”
When you yourself are controlled by outside forces that you yourself have allowed inside … are you still responsible?
If those forces wrestle and usurp your very mind because what you thought was just innocent fun at the time, but now you have completely lost control of your spatial awareness and are now at the whims of what you have kowtowed too, are you responsible?
Just because tragedy has befallen you, just because you yourself have made arguably some of the worst decisions a human being could ever make and as a result disaster has taken residence in your soul, do you think that is license to be cruel to others?
Do you think there is ever a time to be cruel? Did Nazi blood flow through your hardened veins? Did you believe the State issued mandates to murder the innocent?
You wonder why you have fangs now? We all have fangs. Why have you sharpened yours? You yourself encouraged their growth. You yourself have rustled up these demons from the bowels of Gaia. No one else but you.
What on God’s green Earth gives you the idea that the tenets of love are not universal? How is it that you could use those tenets for personal gain?
You are a sidewalk salesman. A liar. A buffoon at the highest level of society.
You survive by mimicking love, mimicking emotion, mimicking any feeling that advances your current agenda. Hiding behind nothing but an acute sense of all things wrong around you. Never what is wrong inside of you.
Escaping into the realm of the unreal, the untested (people cannot test something that is expertly adept at distraction) while shoving your boisterous and forcefully benign hand gestures into positions on everything that you purport to be expert at, is, at best, nauseating.
Luckily for you it holds initial charm. Otherwise you would be alone. Completely alone. Utterly alone. In the grave of anxiety. Sinking in the slough of despondency while reaching your hands out for help, because you know you are going down, you know no one will help.
Not because they lack compassion, mind you, because they will help you by nature, but because at that very moment you will meet yourself and not like you either, just as others don’t like you. You will understand why no one wants to help you.
Then, and only then, can you begin to understand why throwing yourself off of a motorcycle, jumping off a bridge, blowing your head off with a firearm, hanging your neck on a wire, mowing yourself down with a huge speedball is not ever the answer. You must remain alive!
You must be here to experience what it is like to feel the healing hands of love. To experience the loving touch of the unfathomable expanse of a universe that knows no end. You are the last of your kind.
Why burn in hell when you can shine like the sun forever? Why curse and bellyache when you can transfer the life force of a humble spirit to fellow man? Why speak of personal accomplishment when in the light of eternity your value exists only on how much you love. Only on how much you care.
A wise but awkward character in a light blue polyester suit once told me that people don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.
Understand, if you may, I have no problem ending you philosophically. Practically that is messy business. Better left to the professionals or the clinically insane. Those who are certified in such matters of heart and hardened business acumen.
You know them. They move through crowds with an air of murderous confidence, of undeniable demands of respect and a certain commanding gait suggesting move aside padre or I will move you. They hold up lines. They block thoroughfares with wide-bodied auras congested with the souls of those they have snuffed out.
I love to see them. To look into their eyes. They cringe before me.
I am alive with the love of truth. Dreams to them come as nightmares disguised as peace keepers, as swashbuckling pirates in councils assembled for the only reason of deciding your fate after the mutiny is complete.
They stink up a room with either stenches or sweet perfumes. You can almost taste their sweaty ballsacks or feminine cotton candy disguises. The toe jam crusted into their old leather boots sends out a familiar scent, sometimes even you can catch the sweet scent of the new smooth leather soled innuendos of long forgotten dignity and pantyhose.
They have crossed the line. They have given up the ghost and descended into mortal hell.
She takes the quill and heaven takes notice. She writes her soul down as she perpetuates another murder. She has passed her time of periods so now she doesn’t have to make those decisions anymore. Moloch sleeps in her arms. She has embraced him with arms of broken steel.
She can kill.
She hopes to never be noticed.
To never have to own up to the succubus that lives inside her.
The promiscuous hide hatred. They cannot love. They live for thrill and orgasm only. When they are done with you they discard.
You cannot run from the hounds of heaven. All of Earth’s benefits of the doubt are wasted on you.
Lovemaking has no place in the frozen tundra of a steeled heart. Copulation is a means to an end. Not a coming together but just another weapon in an arsenal amassed for no other reason than the attempted murder of anyone you skillfully drag into your lair. Your den of thieves. Grimy souls. The click click click of the roller coaster going up.
What accomplishments do you have that I now have to keep up with you?
What level of transparency do you require?
I’ve given you my heart but you want money. I’ve transferred my name to this residence, yet you want to shooo me. Shooo me away from you for reasons that I cannot comprehend.
What is your source of your logic?
Where do those cruel words come from and why are you saying them to me? Who am I that you can grind my name into the dust?
Don’t you know that your name is eternally written into the sands of time, some off beat b*tch wallowing on a prison bed, carving your initials on the cold concrete blocks of a miserable and wrecked soul?
The scent of your cowardice rises up to the nostrils of our universe and you are making her sneeze, cough, belch out the lies you want your family to believe. You mealy mouthed sloppy eater who looks at everyone else and accuses them of the things you are guilty of. You weak kneed pitiful excuse of a human being. You eternally irrelevant speck of mud dust hiding behind the auspices of past people who may actually have possessed some dignity and integrity.
You are a louse. A sniveling excuse for any purported swaying to the light. You rush headlong into darkness. Curdled pieces of long forgotten cheese stuck somewhere in the cold avenues of a heart ran amok.
I know now the source of your inhumane and murderous attitude towards me. You are a coward on the highest level of the cowardice scale. You have shoved me under, discounted me, spoke evil and innuendoed me into the 3 year grave that all of you motherf*cking narcissists do. You are the poster child for the technically insane cruel b*tchdom of a broken family. A murderous stretch of a killing spree.
Death and dismemberment surround your cloud. Evil has taken residence in the empty shell of the lying you. It has encompassed you around and around like a hand knit shawl. Like an expertly woven sheath of destruction and lying f*ckery. Where you hide b*tch, where you hide inside the shattered insignificance of broken promises.
My curiosity runs as deep as I am allowed. What is this thought that allows you to be so obstinate? This inner rage that no laws can tame? What is the nature of your condition that you let it rule and ruin you? Why do people die around you and yet you still have license to live? How is it that you justify such incredulous behavior towards another human being? Haven’t you been down this road before? How is it that you have not learned your lessons by now? How long is it going to go on? How long do you think you can remain unapproachable and beyond impeachment?
You have sordid all of our hopes for peace. You have taken your supposed power granted you from the Most High and have made a mockery of my loved ones and I.
Settle down. The horses are snorting, kicking their legs. They are ready to run.
Should you be the one to start this fight? Should you be the one trying to keep me from the light? Have you ever even once broken par?