The Carcereal

The world, in all its glory,
is set up to contain us.
Every aspect of it
a prison for the flesh
working and creating the mind.
An omniscient Existance
where we no longer know
or care what is watching.
And I, knowing that there is
nothing to watch me
nothing that cares
nothing that I in any way can properly understand, or that operates according to parameters that could be said to, in our limited language and understanding thereof, show any interest in anything (he operates on a scale peculiar to himself),
I am despite this knowledge in no way free.
Every act of resistance brings me closer to the center.

An attempt at a little bit of Foucault-inspired death worship. Considering my lack of creative talent, I thought it turned out half way decent. In no way original, but that’s postmodernism for you.


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