The Rope Mature content No. 3 Published February 19th, 2015 5:15pm pst read ( words) Past entries "These past several days have shown us ambiguity, confusion, pain, and difficulty. Considering ourselves aslant of the walls of life, we are now connected to the world via rope. Sisal... No. Cotton... No. Nylon... No. This is different. The rope has been fashioned from experiences. It has been crafted and changed throughout many years and hundreds of small backward steps. Every striation displays the repeating pain and sorrow of the past. Each nuance... Each feeling... All are there twisted, braided, and convoluted. Strain, stretch, relief. Repeated over and over throughout the strands. The rope bleeds our feelings and drips upon us. We are suspended from this hellish rope and covered in blood. We hang here, holding on, but are somehow a part of the endless bleeding. The rope binds us as we await the air. The rope is cinched tightly and we cannot move. Just as the box, we are motionless. The rope is short... Nailed to a wall, and weak from the cuts we continuously make. The knife is always there ready to cut us free, but there is no below. Freedom from the rope equals straight into the fall. ...with Her That freedom will continue to elude us no matter the events of each day nor the hopes which connect. We no longer have control over such things due to the rope which binds and bleeds. The fucking rope shall be our end. Point up... Fall down. Look up... Fall down. Push up... Fall down. There is no change whatsoever. The knife continually comes into play and we are helpless to control the cuts. The knife gashes when we least expect. It calls to us from near and from afar and we must obey. We must keep the cuts. We are the cuts. We are frozen into this position such as we have created for ourselves yet somehow we belong here within this hell, and we have always known. We have spent thousands of nights full of nightmares, tears and fear, and wallowing (without fucking self-pity) secure in the knowledge that we belong. We must be here... Always. There simply is no other way to continue breathing, yet there simply is no way to remain alive. The conundrum rules our very existence and the helpless feelings dictate our words and actions. Cemented, fucked, depressed, closed, blind, and yearning. Forever. Normally, the next several words would be a repeat of so many passed days... 'How did we arrive here?'. Well, we know. We have always known. We have spent far too much time parked in front of the fucking markup to not experience that stupid realization. Many, many, many days have resulted in the secure knowledge that we are here of our own volition, decisions and mistakes. One day soon, however, that will come to a crashing halt for us and others... We will be most decidedly gone." Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
The Rope Mature content No. 3 Published February 19th, 2015 5:15pm pst read ( words) Past entries "These past several days have shown us ambiguity, confusion, pain, and difficulty. Considering ourselves aslant of the walls of life, we are now connected to the world via rope. Sisal... No. Cotton... No. Nylon... No. This is different. The rope has been fashioned from experiences. It has been crafted and changed throughout many years and hundreds of small backward steps. Every striation displays the repeating pain and sorrow of the past. Each nuance... Each feeling... All are there twisted, braided, and convoluted. Strain, stretch, relief. Repeated over and over throughout the strands. The rope bleeds our feelings and drips upon us. We are suspended from this hellish rope and covered in blood. We hang here, holding on, but are somehow a part of the endless bleeding. The rope binds us as we await the air. The rope is cinched tightly and we cannot move. Just as the box, we are motionless. The rope is short... Nailed to a wall, and weak from the cuts we continuously make. The knife is always there ready to cut us free, but there is no below. Freedom from the rope equals straight into the fall. ...with Her That freedom will continue to elude us no matter the events of each day nor the hopes which connect. We no longer have control over such things due to the rope which binds and bleeds. The fucking rope shall be our end. Point up... Fall down. Look up... Fall down. Push up... Fall down. There is no change whatsoever. The knife continually comes into play and we are helpless to control the cuts. The knife gashes when we least expect. It calls to us from near and from afar and we must obey. We must keep the cuts. We are the cuts. We are frozen into this position such as we have created for ourselves yet somehow we belong here within this hell, and we have always known. We have spent thousands of nights full of nightmares, tears and fear, and wallowing (without fucking self-pity) secure in the knowledge that we belong. We must be here... Always. There simply is no other way to continue breathing, yet there simply is no way to remain alive. The conundrum rules our very existence and the helpless feelings dictate our words and actions. Cemented, fucked, depressed, closed, blind, and yearning. Forever. Normally, the next several words would be a repeat of so many passed days... 'How did we arrive here?'. Well, we know. We have always known. We have spent far too much time parked in front of the fucking markup to not experience that stupid realization. Many, many, many days have resulted in the secure knowledge that we are here of our own volition, decisions and mistakes. One day soon, however, that will come to a crashing halt for us and others... We will be most decidedly gone."
The Rope
Mature content No. 3 Published February 19th, 2015 5:15pm pst read ( words) Past entries
"These past several days have shown us ambiguity, confusion, pain, and difficulty. Considering ourselves aslant of the walls of life, we are now connected to the world via rope. Sisal... No. Cotton... No. Nylon... No. This is different. The rope has been fashioned from experiences. It has been crafted and changed throughout many years and hundreds of small backward steps. Every striation displays the repeating pain and sorrow of the past. Each nuance... Each feeling... All are there twisted, braided, and convoluted. Strain, stretch, relief. Repeated over and over throughout the strands. The rope bleeds our feelings and drips upon us. We are suspended from this hellish rope and covered in blood. We hang here, holding on, but are somehow a part of the endless bleeding. The rope binds us as we await the air. The rope is cinched tightly and we cannot move. Just as the box, we are motionless. The rope is short... Nailed to a wall, and weak from the cuts we continuously make. The knife is always there ready to cut us free, but there is no below. Freedom from the rope equals straight into the fall.
...with Her
That freedom will continue to elude us no matter the events of each day nor the hopes which connect. We no longer have control over such things due to the rope which binds and bleeds. The fucking rope shall be our end. Point up... Fall down. Look up... Fall down. Push up... Fall down. There is no change whatsoever. The knife continually comes into play and we are helpless to control the cuts. The knife gashes when we least expect. It calls to us from near and from afar and we must obey. We must keep the cuts. We are the cuts. We are frozen into this position such as we have created for ourselves yet somehow we belong here within this hell, and we have always known. We have spent thousands of nights full of nightmares, tears and fear, and wallowing (without fucking self-pity) secure in the knowledge that we belong. We must be here... Always. There simply is no other way to continue breathing, yet there simply is no way to remain alive. The conundrum rules our very existence and the helpless feelings dictate our words and actions. Cemented, fucked, depressed, closed, blind, and yearning. Forever. Normally, the next several words would be a repeat of so many passed days... 'How did we arrive here?'. Well, we know. We have always known. We have spent far too much time parked in front of the fucking markup to not experience that stupid realization. Many, many, many days have resulted in the secure knowledge that we are here of our own volition, decisions and mistakes. One day soon, however, that will come to a crashing halt for us and others... We will be most decidedly gone."
Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
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