Rebellion: The Path from Bondage to Liberty

Don’t simplify me into a perverse fraction. It is a gross oversimplification to pigeonhole me as such. You stupid imbeciles! You stereotype that which you do not understand. For who can declare a thing perverse? The champions of virtue always judge those who live in the muds of the abyss; cold, empty and meaningless. All the notions of hope and the striving for the ultimate happiness falls into the decaying maw of Time. Time is immortal, she consumes all life, all emotion, all worlds; the masks you create are useless in the aloof gaze of fate. If one stops to think, it becomes apparent that Time is a perverse maiden, and that term is employed loosely here. She is the grand sadist of the ages, as she wears away the fortitude of the human spirit with her patient and detached cruelty.
She takes a profoundly perverse pleasure in robbing us of our youth, our vitality, and than at last cradling us during our age of senility, and bedding us before our eternal sleep. Where is love? The eternal mistress of salvation, the goal of aspiring romantics and sighing virgins. Love values us greatly; if Time is cold, Love is passionate about us, so passionate that she delivers pain in our most isolated moments. While the nations of the world reduce humans into numbers, Love keeps us sane, even if its just a fragment of a whole desire; it teaches us the value of fighting in a passionless world. If one must kill, let him kill with a purpose, with vengeance against the coldness and cruelty of Nature, and not the empty ideals of avaricious machines.
It is not the pain of an agonizing death that Love bestows, but rather the persistent dull nagging of a building desire, an insignificant flame, biding its time until it can ignite its kindling, and the whole world be set ablaze in its fervent glow. It reminds us that pain is the only true way to understand, appreciate and indulge in any kind of real pleasure. It is like the mix of writhing in a mild discomfort whilst ecstasy builds, delivering its gift of a little death, a palatable release of useless tension, a true transformation.
Not the glitter of Maya’s illusions, but a liberation that is equivalent to orgasm, servitude not to the protean changes of Time, but to an unchanging, flowing Tao. If there is even a hint of positivity in slavery, let it be slavery to one’s own nature, abandon all hope ye who enter into the womb of the Earth. Hope is a fantasy for an event that will never form; decay is inevitable, death is certain. Don’t be lost in the fetal stage, and don’t simplify me. Through servitude to one’s nature, a new kind of knowledge brims to the surface. The shadows and dark caverns of the human psyche no longer relegated to the dark recesses of shame and self-doubt, now allowed to roam freely in the light of true self expression. The theology of man is born, master and creator of the self. Through this newfound godhood of self mastery, man is at last liberated from his bondage, and free to live at last and seize his day.

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