all-consuming-sea

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Forbidden Romance

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Fauna entry I've written. Mycat.

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Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? I stay in the same place every day. I wake up at the same hour. I drink the same things. I eat the same things. I sleep in the same bed. Nobody is going to complain about the way you do shit, but deep down, you know the things you do to maintain those moments, not everyone else does. Maybe they walk out into the street with intent and buy clothes or gifts and turn each day a amazing experience, every single day of their lives. Lives you can only imagine by looking out through the window and wondering. Maybe you're a slave to the routine. Maybe you specifically have a mental sickness that demands you to do the same shit. It's a symptom. You're filled with the pathological need. Sometimes you'll dream of cooking something for your neighbor. A beautiful pie of your own making, knocking on their door and inviting yourself in as you pry on who they are. Are they happy? Are they happy? Tell me of your day. Give me some sugar. This interrogation does not matter because you won't leave your routine today. There's only a question that matters every day of your calendar, a habit that'll never be forgotten. To quote Camus, should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee? Clean the cups, boil the water and put in the powders. This is routine.

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Everything is in a living/dying state. Binary. Transistors. Can't fully understand the logic, but it's just the way it is, the way reality is. It'll turn on/off regardless of what you do. The air is turning on/off. The air is alive. Breeze. The air is dead. What was there is gone. Carbon Dioxide. Suffocate. Asphyxiate. It's easy to apply this to the world in terms of absence/presence but this is you. This is you. You're a machine of living/dying. The things you make are supposed to rot, fill with pus and necrotic flesh, and then, with a flip of the switch, dance in the air for all to see as if it hadn't been gathering dust for years. Everything around you is dead. Everything you see is alive. The way blood pulses through your brain to understand what's going on makes electricity flow through the machine, and just for a single beat, you'll both be the single organism. The beast with the two backs. That's how things are. The moment you stop reading those words, the moment you close the page, and the moment you forget, this text is dead. And then maybe you'll return a few years, and the gears will turn just as they were, it'll be walking on the meadow to greet you and kiss your hand, and dance with you just one more time, for as many more rounds this process of forgetting/remembering takes. Revive it. Kill it. Revive it. Kill it. Revive me. Kill me. Revive me. Let's dance electric. Can you love me with all your heart? You can't. You can't. I'll murder you. I'll murder with such a intent that I'll forget who you ever were. I'll burn all the memories. I'll make it bleed. And, once we meet again, I'll give you life that you never dared to imagine before.

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Reference sheets for my lovelies.

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Fauna entry I've written. Kleinewhite

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I have a bluesky. I post my thoughts there sometimes. @all-consuming-sea.bsky.social

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Fauna entry I've written. Yummer.

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The Lawn of Pests

"The frail thing calculated. Pondered, as pests do. He knew he'd die, but was it today or tomorrow, or the day after, as hard as that distant time was to imagine?"

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[...] It probably is a duck.

"The complete focus of a greater being like the ugly duckling was dangerous. Sometimes, it killed. Sometimes, it turned whoever disturbed her into a foul thing.

And sometimes, it did absolutely nothing at all."

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The Gastric Wars

"Everyone knew, from the lowest cadet to the highest general: Extinction was their just desserts. In a decade or two, the great filter known as “World Hunger” would swallow all. "