"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space


Is this how you actually approach meeting another, new person, face to face, in your everyday life? Assuming that they are the worst; the exemplification of everything you despise which does, by it’s influx of disconcerting rot, vicariously distort your own face in the mirror?

When you shake the hand of another for the first time, is this what goes through your head, some crystallized fact, born of a chemically compressed idea that you and everything you have ever thought is immutable and eternal? Whilst in that embrace are you conducting experiments in your mind on how to prove that everything they say is absolutely irrelevant? And if you cannot, do you shun and mock this person entirely just to save face?

Before you even hear the first words out of their mouth, just by looking at them, does your AT field go up as you, by your own natural conditioning, woven by every indecent thought you’ve struggled to hide, every simplified idiom you’ve embraced as knowledge, every weakness you’ve chosen to wade in just long enough to begin feeling the relative chill dissipate, distort everything this other person says and will ever say to you as they continue to ramble on, into a minefield that you will attempt to back him or her into, as an eventual, grand-championing over their existence, their misspoken words exploding and dismembering their current personas? Is this how you actually live your life?

No. You probably do not, in your face to face, everyday existence.

But you most likely do this on the internet, as you psychologically contort inside of your castle towers, waiting for the semblance of an electronic moral tide to coalesce with the shores below you, so that you can experience some sort of existential catharsis as the sunrise tears, bereft of thought or time, over it’s breakers, witnessing some erratic beauty akin to revelation, anonymous.


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