Behind the Mask: The Truth Beneath Existence

There's this expectation to love life. To be positive, grateful no matter what. There's this expectation to be alright and answer with "I'm good," even when you're not. Nobody wants to hear a different story. So then you have this existence where you look around and you're afraid to hate all the things you hate: all the people, all the situations, parts of yourself, the world, and its systems and processes. To be negative is the greatest crime against the shit world we live in, for it's a slap in the face of the creator who never shows itself.

The perpetual lie of life—that it's beautiful, that the world is beautiful—God forbid we sit and admit that beauty is in a detail or two in an experience, but that the overall experience is a world of sadness, horror, untruth, agony, and substandard existence. The world can never live up to the expectations of anyone with any depth; that is the canvas of the common denominator of low-life thought and existence. To have intelligence and passion is to be foreign on the face of this earth, for it's a world of shallowness, stupidity, and nonsense.

Dressed-up rats are running around pretending they're not looking for cheese, talking, pretending they're not squeaking, and horrified of the next plague and extermination. We see ourselves as above all life and creation, yet we mostly create piles of refuse and filth, with exceptional beauty here and there, created by a few enlightened rats. Culinary delights cover the pointlessness of eating for more than sustenance. Clothes in all styles hide that we're just hideous creatures, definitely not even one of the most beautiful creatures that walk the earth.

All of life, all of society, hides that we are not above all other creation, that we are not special, and that what we do and create is like the passing wind and falling leaves—irrelevant.