As freedoms increased, freedoms increased. Identities are the easiest way to build a lock. Layers upon layers of identities. Make each layer easily identifiable and then nest them.
The only way in, in a timely fashion is to know them all. You will get in, eventually. Perhaps the algorithm before. 30 semaphores? 3000 semaphore tumbler. Vector crossed? 259.
I have to remind myself on a regular basis why being 8 years removed from the day I finally said "no" to being trampled and hidden and displayed and ripped apart by my parents is important.
It's not an "in memorium" for them as much as a "time makes fools of us all." Things get rose tinted and goofy and it becomes easy to slough details and miss bolts during assembly. It becomes
natural to see it their way and understand margins and forget why fifteen layers thick gloves are necessary to. It is scary existing without the safety net of a mom and a dad.
Not even the safety net, but a perspective with something behind that should be automatic. I never thought the jealousy would grow the way it has. I hoped cutting them off would be the hardest part.
"There won't be any home to go back to." The seasons wear on. Soldier on. I would still rather a genuine holiday gathering to plastic family photographs and obtuse threats.
It's not rage. S'not anger or disappointment. It's slipping my fingers through the links of the farthest fence I've reached inside the meta-jail compound. Fuck me, seventy acres out from solitary.
Forty-four fucking gates, six yards, general population, no armed guards, three muzzles and three mittens, two fields, and one drone called off and still inside the fucking compound.
It is strange to be an orphan by choice. Well, why don'tcha call 'em? Have you ever been on the phone with someone who hurt you more times than you could count and it took you
years just to understand that it didn't have to be normal? That it wasn't normal. And then to have an outright denial thrown in your face when you do finally fucking get it.
To see so many parts of why you are the way that you are tossed away with a flick of a wrist and rebuild it into some semblance of what you could've been and ... hell, you know what?
You call them. I can tell you exactly what they'll say. And you'll say "aw, man, your parents are funny. Cool dude. Your mom had this story about this one time and-"
Okay. I hate being an orphan. There's a blackhole where P1 & P2 were supposed to be. It's the lesser of blades I suppose. I try not to wear it outright, but I do get jealous sometimes
when I speak to friends and they talk about how they had a conversation with their pops or moms. I will not do it again. That territory is radioactive for a reason and I want to make sure
that we don't forget.
The only way in, in a timely fashion is to know them all. You will get in, eventually. Perhaps the algorithm before. 30 semaphores? 3000 semaphore tumbler. Vector crossed? 259.
I have to remind myself on a regular basis why being 8 years removed from the day I finally said "no" to being trampled and hidden and displayed and ripped apart by my parents is important.
It's not an "in memorium" for them as much as a "time makes fools of us all." Things get rose tinted and goofy and it becomes easy to slough details and miss bolts during assembly. It becomes
natural to see it their way and understand margins and forget why fifteen layers thick gloves are necessary to. It is scary existing without the safety net of a mom and a dad.
Not even the safety net, but a perspective with something behind that should be automatic. I never thought the jealousy would grow the way it has. I hoped cutting them off would be the hardest part.
"There won't be any home to go back to." The seasons wear on. Soldier on. I would still rather a genuine holiday gathering to plastic family photographs and obtuse threats.
It's not rage. S'not anger or disappointment. It's slipping my fingers through the links of the farthest fence I've reached inside the meta-jail compound. Fuck me, seventy acres out from solitary.
Forty-four fucking gates, six yards, general population, no armed guards, three muzzles and three mittens, two fields, and one drone called off and still inside the fucking compound.
It is strange to be an orphan by choice. Well, why don'tcha call 'em? Have you ever been on the phone with someone who hurt you more times than you could count and it took you
years just to understand that it didn't have to be normal? That it wasn't normal. And then to have an outright denial thrown in your face when you do finally fucking get it.
To see so many parts of why you are the way that you are tossed away with a flick of a wrist and rebuild it into some semblance of what you could've been and ... hell, you know what?
You call them. I can tell you exactly what they'll say. And you'll say "aw, man, your parents are funny. Cool dude. Your mom had this story about this one time and-"
Okay. I hate being an orphan. There's a blackhole where P1 & P2 were supposed to be. It's the lesser of blades I suppose. I try not to wear it outright, but I do get jealous sometimes
when I speak to friends and they talk about how they had a conversation with their pops or moms. I will not do it again. That territory is radioactive for a reason and I want to make sure
that we don't forget.
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