Whether through survival response, forgotten intention or inherent design, some of us seem to be wired for discomfort and unease. Some of us have learned to seek it out.
Anathema, anathemus, anathemist.
It goes so far back, it is hard to tell if it is dis-ease, I or we who speaks as me. A Promethean enclave, a makeshift collective whose comfort is found most in hostile territory.
Exorcise, exorcist, excommunicate.
I, we, they have tried across decades to interrupt, disconnect, deride this drive. To cut through the treaties signed between I and I to survive. They are unaware these bonds are the only things that keep me free and alive.
Utility, utilitarianism, to be of use.
I dreamt we had a place, a purpose, a role to play, jagged tools weaponized for dire days. Made to walk barefoot on glass and loving every step. To move in ways you would never dare move. Hassan I Sabbah, I’ll take it to the grave with me.
Complete, completion, completist.
This is love. I, we wouldn’t have it any other way.