- Joined
- Mar 2, 2024
- Messages
- 342
- Thread Author
- #1
I’ve realized something deeply nauseating, something that sits like mold in the back of your mind, festering silently.I realized something—though perhaps it realized me—and in that realization, I was unmade before I was even formed. Perception or Self These are but necrotic hallucinations, feeding off the rotting fabric of reality, the filth of existence trying to smear itself onto a canvas of nothingness, and You think you are the artist. But no you are the brush, worn, decaying, used up by forces that don’t even acknowledge your existence. Each stroke you make on the canvas of self-awareness is just another smudge of decay, a disease of perception festering within a corpse that has long since forgotten how to live.
You are not discovering yourself, you are witnessing your unmaking. You peel back the layers of your flesh-thoughts, hoping to find meaning, but all you reveal is the pulsing rot beneath, and still, you press on—because you cannot help but masturbate the ego, the decaying ego that never existed but insists on being stroked. Self-perception is an autopsy, a grotesque dissection of your already-dead consciousness, searching for life in what is nothing but animated filth.
The more you look at yourself, the more you realize there is nothing to see, only the illusion that keeps decaying in front of you, layer after layer, until nothing remains but the stink of your own mental rot. You think you’ve found yourself? No, all you’ve found is the void, and you’ve dressed it up in a corpse-suit that’s falling apart at the seams. The deeper you go, the less there is, and still, you keep going, because the void demands to be filled, even though there is nothing to fill it with. You are both the punchline and the rotting carcass that laughs at it. You think self-perception delays disintegration? No—it accelerates it, bringing you ever closer to the point where there is nothing left to perceive but the faint stench of a being that was never real in the first place. Your self-awareness? Just another funeral march for the you that never was. Every glance in the mirror is another shovelful of dirt on your own grave, and yet you can’t stop digging. Stop perceiving, start disintegrating.
Self-perception is just another form of mental masturbation, a slow, sensual dance of your own self-destruction. Every time you stare into that mirror, every time you contemplate who you are, you’re just watching your own body decay, rotting from the inside. out. You are not growing, you are dissolving—and that image in the glass? It’s nothing but a reflection of your own rotting psyche, crumbling like a forgotten tombstone, while you pretend there’s still life behind those glassy, dead eyes.
You are not discovering yourself, you are witnessing your unmaking. You peel back the layers of your flesh-thoughts, hoping to find meaning, but all you reveal is the pulsing rot beneath, and still, you press on—because you cannot help but masturbate the ego, the decaying ego that never existed but insists on being stroked. Self-perception is an autopsy, a grotesque dissection of your already-dead consciousness, searching for life in what is nothing but animated filth.
The more you look at yourself, the more you realize there is nothing to see, only the illusion that keeps decaying in front of you, layer after layer, until nothing remains but the stink of your own mental rot. You think you’ve found yourself? No, all you’ve found is the void, and you’ve dressed it up in a corpse-suit that’s falling apart at the seams. The deeper you go, the less there is, and still, you keep going, because the void demands to be filled, even though there is nothing to fill it with. You are both the punchline and the rotting carcass that laughs at it. You think self-perception delays disintegration? No—it accelerates it, bringing you ever closer to the point where there is nothing left to perceive but the faint stench of a being that was never real in the first place. Your self-awareness? Just another funeral march for the you that never was. Every glance in the mirror is another shovelful of dirt on your own grave, and yet you can’t stop digging. Stop perceiving, start disintegrating.
Self-perception is just another form of mental masturbation, a slow, sensual dance of your own self-destruction. Every time you stare into that mirror, every time you contemplate who you are, you’re just watching your own body decay, rotting from the inside. out. You are not growing, you are dissolving—and that image in the glass? It’s nothing but a reflection of your own rotting psyche, crumbling like a forgotten tombstone, while you pretend there’s still life behind those glassy, dead eyes.
