I have a vision of a future, of what I dream for my philosophy. A major change, if my dreams hold true. I am tainted. I am not what I want to be -- I have little place in the world I would create. This society has stomped on me, ripped my flesh, stolen my dignity, and spilled my blood. My spikes are out. I am going to fix things, or at least put forth a mighty effort to do so. It is an all out war, in a sense. So much needs to come down. So much needs to go up, or be purified. My sufferings have instilled in me a psychological drive to fix things, a trustworthy constant anger, a sobbing passion for those that suffer, a deep and mellow cynicism, an urge to fix. I RIPPED THE SIDE OFF OF THAT HOUSE, WATCHED THE WALLS TUMBLE, AND LAUGHED, and then REDID THINGS THE WAY THEY SHOULD'VE BEEN, WITH SOLID, SIMPLE, TRUSTWORTHY, perhaps paranoid, UNDECORATED AND HONEST WALLS. The economics, the greed, the snobbery, the US and THEM, the NATION, these jars of exotic spices that YOU PEOPLE WOULD NEVER EVEN USE, YOU JUST KEEP THEM AS A STUPID STATUS SYMBOL, they are SMASHED ON THE FLOOR, GLASS EVERYWHERE, YOUR FAT FEET BLEED ON THE GROUND. I am a lion, and we'll need plenty more lions, but the land shall be safe for .. lambs? No, yaks. I can never regain my innocence. But maybe once religion is dead, nations breathe their last breath, and my intellectual friends have removed the parasites from their backs, those ideas that hold us all back, when the world is changed, maybe people won't need to deal with the load I bear. Perhaps they can be simple, beautiful, terrible beings. Pure in their anger, innocent, honest, completely unaware of the inner delusions and corruptions I must struggle with. No endless stream of inner complaints from an inner Buddha, an inner Christian, an inner Nietzsche, an inner mystic. I am like a shaman -- all these seeds I have planted in myself, to help me understand and conquer, and yet their thorns twist my skin. I am enlightened, tortured; melted flesh knows no bounds. But I hope, for the future, that this is not all that we can be. A vision -- I was in Texas, visiting some relatives. Two boys, young and sharp. And yet, their parents had already inflicted them with Christianity. My wizened hand brushed their already-implanted philosophy, confirming the presense of the old enemy in them. I could cure them, but they would just be infected again by their parents. It would do me no good, and I would just raise hairs. Helpless. Like an Israeli in Palestine, or a Palestinian in Israel. There are cases where I would sacrifice myself, but not here.

How strange. Puzzlement. Acceptance of chaos. I tilt my head, and say "That's funny" "That's odd" "Oh well". Anger? Peace? War? Dedication? Admiration? Smooth skin? It says something about me that my expressions have begun to shape my face, but my stomach is still the smooth ideal that I want to see on faces. Uncomplicated. Obsidian. Cloud white. Not marble.