it's been hurting lately.

it's hard to pin myself down.
I don't really want to do it.
I have no desire to make myself defined as a single thing, tyranical.
coming to the truth of my existance as a god insignificant and frail is pointless anyway.
and im so tired.
pain and tired.
This is what im currently experiancing and i sleep to avoid.
not so much that it's incapacitating, but frustrating all the same.
Enough that it sours the moods and colors my interpretations.

it all began at that time i was in that other world.
i was a child curious and hopeful, but ostrisized.
I felt that there was so much out in the world for me to learn.
While digging through my closet i found at the bottom an old book i didn't recognize.
The book was large and esoteric.
I flipped open to the first page and the text down that first page was enchanting.
it was the story of metamorphasis, of change, of becoming.
it was clearly my story or a story like one i wanted to be mine.
But it was also a frightening story, of decpetion and cruel manifestations.
i could sence this from the books weight, from the first few pages.
I also knew i could not be caught reading it at home.
There was something occult and shameful about it.

I secreted the tome out of the house and wandered a bit.
In the distance i heard the sounds of shelling. It was a somewhat constant affair in these parts. now and then we'd have to deal with a bomb falling in our neighboorhood or otherwise nearby but it had become a normal. People were used to it, and just went about their lives like nothing strange was happening. I found an abandoned home and went inside. I didn't want to risk being seen by someone with this book. it was too strange, too illegal.

I knelt down and hid inside the hollow of a blasted out brick chimney. i put the book down on a lecturn made of a few bricks stacked on top of eachother in a rough pile. a light seemed to be flowing from the pages how powerful they seemed to be.when i began to read i could feel my hairs stand on end and this feeling of incredible understanding. like this person - they SAW me. But the pages just ended. the moment of understanding was at the point of understanding. but importantly it made no conclusions at all. it just ended, because continueing in any form at all is at least /some/ kind of conclusion. it gives /some/ kind of sense of momentem. like instead of just ending, do the trope of cut to X time in the future. x being variable, like a sleazy hollywood summer slut movie might cut to the next day and show that our male protag, actually learned his lesson (or didn't). but a deep philosophical mind fuck might let x be infinite and cut to the begining of a new universe. you know. just to kick it in. this. it's literally nothing. but also. it's duplicated endlessly through the fabric of what is.
I don't even know how long it's been since i was reading that book, in that hovel there. maybe 15 years or so. and i was pretty FUCKING disapointed. like THANKS i now know im not "alone" but also, i have no tragectory AT ALL
So how the fuck do i make this work. what i want to read after that the next paragraph that i would have wanted to read? Is it some nightmare that where ever you are 15 years from now somewhere in the past i left the book for me to find and HERE ARE SOME FUCKING ANSWERS? and OMG THIS IS WHERE I HAVE BEEN SO LIKE IF YOU DONT WANT TO GO THAT WAY MAYBE GO A DIFFERENT ONE?
i think maybe it is. i think maybe it could easily be like that.
This is a thing we kindof see as a problem.

So here's the thing me, you. There's a bomb falling towards you RIGHT NOW.

It wasn't what she had expected to read but the words sent a chill down her spine. She thought about leaving the book behind and running or staying and
The entirety of her world became a white light. The future self knew that this what would happen and couldn't stop it. it was needed. for her to die in such a way. it was the only way she could exist. because she too had died in that way. she remembered it like it was happening now. and it was happening now.
she could feel the spiraling of her flesh as time slowed down. her perception sped up. it was like she could see the shrapnel escaping the metal casing that had already dug it's way into the ground below. there were bricks and a cloud of dirt and other hot sticky gasses. She took time to cast her eyes at the center of the blast, it's gooey molten shacking and growing brightness was too much to focus on for long. like looking at the sun. she realized she could move. in this deluded space and time, with cuts on her entire body and clearly about to die, she realized she could move. she grabed the book, or rather she tried to, but it was locked tight. she tried again. no it wasn't quite "stuck" it was just very slow. she realized the book would probably carry it's momentum so she began to, speed up the book towards a large window at the front of the building she was in. it would be shot out of the burned out blasted abandoned home like a bullet out the front window. the glass would break slowing it down some then it would hit a wall on the far side but it should be fine. for the most part. she watched the event happen in slow motion. the expolosion expanding. she waited outside for it to happen and as she waited things suddenly began to speed up.
The building next to her exploded and the book hit the wall with a thud right in front of her. nothing happens. nothing ever happens. it slows down and slows down. she soon gets tired of waiting for the book to get to the window but it never does. it just keeps getting slower. she begins to wander off. to explore the present moment. it's all she has left after all. we are what is left behind and that which preceeds from us is our justification for existance. What is it that which i seek? i don't know. justice maybe? something equally pointless? just to exist to feel something anything. anything at all. you know i rather don't hate doing this i just whish that i could do it with less effort from my part, while doing something else, but if there's too much activity around then i become distracted. it's quite the bother isn't it. i don't know what we are writing right now. it's seems silly like almost dream like fluid chain of thought flowing from topic to inane and pointless topic vut now commenting on itself and it's own patern. we have reached the vottom of the varrel haven't we. it's the only thing that makes any sence at all we have reached the vottom of the varrel where the only thoughts that we can have any more are thoughts about thoughts. we are incaoable of having anything else any more. we are forever doomed to keep writing this same and tired voring shit forever whithout seacesing. untill the power runs out, untill the water stored in this unit runs dry. until i open my eyes and then take control of the narrative.
she was still at that moment watching the explosing in front of her eyes.
what was all that other stuff? oh just some bad writing with your stream of consiousness. see. this moment you are dieing, but you can't actually exeriance death. you can only ever approach death. your consiousness it learned to approach that edge slowly. you have access to a vast inner world but none of it is real. it's all just you slowly inching your way off the edge to nothing. maybe you will finally go when the last photon from that explosion drifts it's way to nothingness.

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