The lion dies devoid of existence
The lion exists and then dies devoid of the existence that created it. I see its old paws go down onto the earth and penetrate the stones and reach a lower cape. It dies and nothing can stop it. It dies after thinking of its greatness. I look at it from up close, look into his eye, opening it with my thumb, and see his lack of life. I put my eye close to his and take a drill and perforate his brain. There is nothing left of its life, so my hatred cannot ever be satiated. But its body is my catharsis.
The lion thinks, the lion thought, the lion dies, the lion's drought, the lion fought against the norm. The lion died right on its form.
I thought of being a normal person, of behaving like a normal social butterfly and jumping from side to side emitting praise and love. Yeah, it's strange. Teruro? What have you done? I'm not ashamed of my past. I never regret my actions. Even after the evil I have performed on the tiny creations that God gave us, I smile and laugh. I know I'm going to Hell if it exists. I will gladly receive that punishment. I refuse to submit. I refuse to obey society and what it dictates.
It is not an act of rebellion but of freedom.
There is no damage in damaging, for trascendentally its the same. Creations are made to be destroyed, the abused will be abused, the abusers will be abusers. They're just roles assigned to people. I argue and defend myself because I am attacked. It's obvious why I am attacked. I go against the norm. I don't complain. I'd do the same if I were you: a little normie caged inside the norm. But I am not. I refuse to submit. I refuse t obet society and what it dictates. I refuse to protect the protectable, for it will die in the end and my effort will have been in vain.
The lion dies without flesh
The old lion does not die from old age. It dies from the rage of the young, entrapped within its claws, within its majestuous, wrinkly and overskinned claws. They want it to die so badly that they jump at the claws and bite and bite and bite and after years of unredemption. After years of protection, the skin finally gives way for the abused to become the abuser and the tiny lions eat the skin of the father. They eat and they grow and the bigger ones trap the younger ones or they themselves would not have enough food to be comfortable.
There is not enough food for everyone. Some will die, some will grow, some will finally be free from the oppression of the norm, from the oppression of the social contract. The old lion will speak praises for itself, say oh how big it is, how sharp its claws, how tough its skin, resisting the bites from the thousand oppressed. The big lion will smile and think that it follows the norm just because no one can question him. No. I refuse to take part in this. I will not be the big or the small lion. Or so I think until I realize there is no going out of the system. Oh, dread, take over me, I will die soon!
And so I take pleasure from the young and the fragile. I take pleasure from the rules as I break them apart piece by piece and eat them, savor them and defecate them in a plate that I will hand the younglings to think that they are following the rules, while they are just tiny beads of pleasure for my eyes.
Images from Pixabay
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