Battles, Wars, Scars

You are in a bad dream of all sorts, unable to move, unable to speak. You are just stuck in the woods like a bird with cursed wings. And although you are completely aware of the fact that the rebel humanity invented time for convenience's sake, you feel bad for going against it. The axis of time, you once smirked at its silliness, now devouring your whole transition, like an egg coagulating. But at least, you think, eggs can still serve another function. You are the perfect example of a recipe for disaster, going towards the opposite direction of a perfectly harmonious marching band. But it's okay. It's okay to be stagnant. It's okay to be void and empty because you know these are just the absence of the opposite. And you know that nothing stays in one form so there's no way you're going to stay like that forever. But you know deep down your core that you want to win over your defective physical container of your divine soul. And as much as you want to reach into conclusions, there are no conclusions. As what Oshima, coincidentally a hemophiliac, said in Murakami's Kafka on the Shore, novels without conclusions are perfectly fine. And you realize that he was right. Conclusions, after all, are concepts disguised as the effects of your actions and you can always change that; remember, always.

-Manganese