They say war never changes
They say war never changes. All I know is paranoia persists. Nobody ever resists — or at least not for long.
You learned to accept death and the quiet tyranny of taxes. Why let alien probes, AI uprisings, or global wars undo that neat stupor?
So tell me: with the recurring knowledge of doom gnawing at your ribs, what will you do to stop this updated bogeyman that stalks you?
Exactly. Jack shit, John Long-con. Close your mouth and sit. The complaints box is infinite; the loudspeaker never calls your number.
If you truly have no clue, that’s you then. Here’s a tissue and a ticket to the void. If you worry, you’ll die. If you don’t worry, you’ll die. Pick whichever flavor of death you prefer. Both are equally terminal.
Maybe a part of me envies you — or is jealous of your blessed certainty that you know nothing. Keep your certainty; I’ll keep my miserable readiness. We both win nothing.
Shh. Stop. Quiet the crying. Those who do not ask why they cry will keep crying forever. Dry salt on smiling cheeks marks the one who finds answers he never knew to seek. You clutch at ideas too soft; a panicked grip will crush whatever faith remains.
Like the arm of the resurrected — rotten, twitching, clawing — a thousand hands dig up layer after layer from the fresh-built graves beneath the granite headstones that hold no names. No "here lies". No prayers. Only colored lines, all the same shapeless grey, on black polish.
Here a hopeless hand, not reaching for another, but trembling — a thing beyond death that refuses decay. A black breeze drifts through this graveyard of unspoken things, felt by nothing, ruffling neither leaf nor hair. You are not granted the mercy of being forgotten; you are not anything at all. You have no dying. No darkle, no tinct. Your ribbon of longing was severed and burned.
Not even the idea of being forgotten hears your inaudible, grotesque whimper. Outside of time, temper, measure: dimensionless. Purged, deleted. Never begun, never to begin. No rogue arithmetic can measure what you did to deserve this absence; even energy knows you not.
And yet I know. I hold you from escape with a childish, torturing grin. Here, among demons of my own forging, I burn in plasma the devils themselves. I laugh at your pointless worth and revel in the slow ripping of anything you might have called a soul. My laughter touches the nothing you are and roasts the ashes of your abrasive, godless essence.
I am become pure, unstoppable hate. Your anti-existential pitch-black dread will never unmoor. My acidic energy stains the thin veil you pray to cross. I spit on the fabric of the universe.
Hear me: what I vomit here is your curse. As above, so below.
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Posted Sep 15, 2025, 7:43 AM UTC