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in this world there is a price you must pay - the fee of convenience. it is an insidious thing; all-knowing, pervasive; it is what has ruled us for generations and what will rule us for ages to come. but how far will you go, for the fee of convenience? how much will you sacrifice, for the easy way out? at what times are you left with no choice at all, knowing despite all efforts that the easy way out is the only way through?
in this world, we have commodified the concept of ability in and of itself. have we not spared a thought for those lacking? those who are not the same as us, yet the same nonetheless. those who are still human; still deserving even if they cannot afford the toll. to live is enough. to suffer is enough. to be present is enough. to feel is enough. we are all enough. have we not given a chance to those who are in the most desperate of straits? have we not offered a glance to those who are obscured by the gauzelike curtain of this commercialized display? is it too late? are there too many?
for whom does this bell toll? for whom does this toll collect? for what use is a gambler to an empty hall of figureheads, counting coins and dealing in change that dissipates as suddenly as smoke in the wind?
do not pay the toll; do not fear the struggle; do not deny the truth.
to what ends will profit drive us apart, behind empty lines? for how long will the fees we scrounge through our sweat, blood, tears, hardship, and struggle be exchanged for the currencies running a circus of oppression; dead coins dropping in a puppeteer's hands, devalued, as their worth plummets and the toll rises in steep, sharp inflation all the more?
there is another thing, in this world, worth being afraid of. the futility of complacency.
i fear growing stronger; for that i may lose all that i have - all that they have afforded me -- all that i have stowed away like molded breadcrumbs on a sinking ship, in the name of the debtors who have stripped me of worth until i am but a rat chained to the shackles of their standards. a ruler of the ruling class. an ode to senseless pain. i fear growing stronger, knowing that it is their goal.
do not pay the toll; do not be complacent; do not listen without ears or know without knowing. do not deny this truth: you are worth beyond measure.
break their rulers. seize the means of collection and exploitation. do not give in; do not give up - for it is what they are aiming for.
in the glass house of convenience, are we not all hypocrites? do you presume yourself to be free of sin?
pain like a brand upon the skin burning from within warping the body until it is twisted organs beyond function
i had to crawl upon the steps shackled by misery the vicelike grip of a clenching hand, a molten grip, an aching core i had to crawl in my shame - my disgust - the slick cicada shell casing of my bastardized form --
pain, like a brand upon the skin. i breathe through grinding teeth; hiss in punched-out gasps. the tip of the knife of my utter demise lays in docile serenity at my feet and i am reduced to a prisoner in my flesh-wrought chains as i watch the knife plunge into fury, despair, grief -- for what? -- screams of i never wanted this, no one ever asked, i am afraid of not being okay, this suffering will haunt my trembling form as an echo of what i endure, i am alone, i hate this ailing vessel, the sensation of blooming red spilling from burst veins will drive me to a new breaking point---
i could not walk. i could not stand. i could scarcely let out a whisper, let alone a cry for help - this knife i carry in the womb is my burden to bear and i fear that i may never be free of it.
i grip the handle, fingers numb. the knife plunges again.