Leaving=Living

Psicodelia - Infected Mushrooms - Vicius delicius
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUXBGaqhUCU&feature=related
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The impossibility of your ruling. My dismay and dissaray. It is only upon the moment of leaving, that I will start living. Until then, I am dead. You see me moving, talking, breathing. But puppets of black magic can mimic such just as much...

And I can cry all I want to she won't care how much I invest myself on her, she won't care how much I invest myself on them. I find it hard to help who won't help me when they can. I find it hard to stay and complicated to go. I'm not in and not quite out, but I feel the precipitation of what's coming on.

The hands that help me up, only lift me to scare me off, so I can fall again, and although I fall not physically and others can not perceive the wind being pushed up by my fall, I find myself to feel no humiliation, but definetely abandoned.

The pills are all too serious and I love them not. I do not even like them. They do not share my simpathy and they expect me to let them into my metabolism simply just like that. They expect me to open up my mind to them and let them take the little action they do for the expensive price they have. Well, I say I need them not, and the so called "doctors" who tell me I'm unhealthy say so without even having had any appointments with me. It's a medical mafia that's what it is.

Had we not been betrayed, we wouldn't be facing this now.

Had we been precatious, the enemies wouldn't have me locked up taking their pills in the stink and with the stink of their lower domains.

The strenght of an army is much too great, one can not fight them off alone, and so one creates one's own army and goes to fight having the illusion of being now better off. Illusion I say, for meetings pre-battlefield have corrupted the mind of your allies, and one, yes, you are one, is now in double the trouble as in previous fights.

So you go to fight, you wear your helmet on and you take up your weapons. You make the white trees of reference move further east so that your kingdom, or better put, the kingdom you fight for, seems more vast in size. You let the women wear beards so they too, can fight. You let the kids wear heels so they can go tall with pride. You spare no horse, no elepahant, no rabbit, all should come even if they can only bite. It's a tiranny that should be imposed, because that's what has been done in the other side.

But the viruses have reached them, and as we all march in hope and half-confidence we get face to face, horsepower to horsepower, with the enema. What seems to be a half-life of silence is broken as I'm about to speak.They start laughing, laughing loudly, but why do they laugh? They laugh because as I look back my men point their swords against my unbeliving eyes and their not-so-new king tells me to surrender. And I do, for I can not fight my own army dubbled in size.

Imprisoned, for now, here I am, decided to become a ranger, backed up only by the powers of forbidden knowlege, betrayed by my people and my queen, mistreated by the guardians of my cell, abandoned by my so coward friends, and taking daily injections and tortures which put me off on the edge of losing it all.

I write on these walls with the bones of my dead cellmate; "The impossibility of your ruling. My dismay and dissaray. It is only upon the moment of leaving, that I will start living. Until then, I am dead. You see me moving, talking, breathing. But puppets of black magic can mimic such just as much..."