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I could’ve have chosen a better heroic chariot. A 1994 Honda Civic is a bit rusty, both literally and figuratively. A voice in my head tells me that’s a linguistic fallacy, but I ignore it, like I’ve been ignoring all the voices. Unless I ask. Then I need to listen. I also need to figure out lies from truth, but the voices haven’t led me too badly wrong so far. They want to fuck with me, but not to kill me. They’re enjoying living again quite a lot I think.
I take the Eastern Freeway, then Maroondah Highway, my little car chugging along. It’ll limp for a few more years, until I put it down like a sick dog. I’ll miss it, if I’ve remembered how. If I cared about missing things, I’d probably miss that particular feeling. I don’t though. I don’t really care about much. I know what I should do, I know what’s expected of me. I try to make other people happy, because I remember doing that, at least some of the time. I have to remind myself of it constantly, though. While I’m seperated from what makes me human, I need those reminders, before I take someone apart at their base elements because it’s easier than asking them to move. Now…morally, I wouldn’t feel the difference.
You can’t know until you’ve tried it, kids. Don’t trade your soul. It sucks pretty goddamn hard.