And the target is right here.

This place is becoming haunted, full to the brim with ghosts I can’t expell. Each moment a new one. Each second, minute, heartbeat goes by and yet another layer, another tone or shadow is added to one more half-remembered failure, shortcoming, shortsighted pitfall.

You can’t let them go, can you?
You can’t redo, edit, reconstruct them like you do a sentence, an image, a phrase. You can’t change the sound or the lighting in the room. You can’t replay, play it back, and recut the pieces you don’t like. You can’t redub your own mind.

Like someone always said — no take-backs in this game, friend. No turn-arounds. You may think you go backward down a road you went down once, but the reality is your only making new tracks in the old mud. New mess ups in the old ruts.

You circle back around yourself like life and death. Like the cycle you so precociously bend, bow, break to. Like the revolution you keep claiming you’re working on. The light you claim you’r moving in. The hope of things you know don’t exist that you keep pretending to keep faith in.

You believe in nothing but suffering, so you wear it around your neck. Nihlistic and fatalistic, you pretend to love to get your vengence out. You pretend to play along to get your vices out. You dance along to get the rhythm down so you know just how to play the part when you are tested, tried, pressed hard.

And you wonder when you’re lied to?
And you wonder when the roof falls in from underneath you?
And you wonder when the world is still plastic static cling wrapped tight around your throat?

You’re a funny one. Sitting at your axis claiming you know how this plays down. You have all these handwritten notes and a metaphor in mind and you’re goddamn good at it, so it’s bound to go, right?

Oh, darling, you forgot. You were born with this heart of pure carbon that doesn’t work right. Over time, you never changed or moved. You’ve only been desperately searching for some lithium to combine you with, some light to let off in the reaction, some flicker of some flame to come from your heart, your soul, your brittle splintered bones.

But carbon sticks are made of nothing but charcoal dust, and those marks wipe away so easily. A single passive motion and they’re gone. Combine the dust with a bit of oil and it might stick around a while, but you still have no combustion to speak of. Without a needle and some blood, you aren’t permanent at all. And even then, just disappearing, fading, depleting yourself at a very slow rate. So death beats you to the punchline before you end up being gone.

I’d buy stock and steam in robots, actually.
Because life without blood and this egotistical self-defeat is much more likely to survive. Since we all know sinew and bone are sure to rot away. Maybe even before their time. We’re all already dead, anyway.

Have you been cured, pressed, or dried in hot sunlight?
Now might be the time…

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