Fucking Kill It With Fire

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He told me to lend myself to the fear filled fallacies, the hate hollowed horrors that do walk hand in hand with my cheery demeanor. He told me to tell my reason off and reach for that musk of idiocy, the warm and loving embrace of delusion. He told me these things, and I could barely pull away from that held hand he so gingerly presented to me, but for now I have managed to stray away from desire… This once only I presume.

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n

Frank’s

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Frank was a stout, gnarled man. Actually quite as you might expect a Frank to be. A little obtuse, a little dull, but jolly and sincere with a solid foundation of faith based on morality and love. I’ve always had incredibly decent luck with the Frank’s I have met. Only once have I encountered a Frank I did not at least like a little, and this Frank I am considering now is not that exception.
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My family used to live right on the corner of an intersection, in a small town, in the south of the Yukon. It wasn’t an ideal place to live because every single snowy season the day would come where we would all wake up to ferocious bangs and waddle outside in our skinnies only to find some lonely drunk up on the curb with head hung over wheel. Drunkenly accidents were actually such a common occurrence on that intersection there that we erected concrete barriers along the ditchline. It was all going well that year until one of the barriers sent a fucking truck into Frank’s living room… They were promptly removed after that incident.
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But thankfully that brings me back to the subject of this affair… Frank Munro. I always knew of him as decent but reclusive. A collector, a peaceful entity who simply wanted to do what he might… But that was about as far as my knowledge of him extended. We had him over for dinner one Thanksgiving actually, and he was very pleasant, very pleasant… though he was anxious I could tell. The crackling of the fire, the bumbling of my whiskey ridden father, it  clanging of the cutlery. Frank wasn’t comfortable, with the movement of it all. I don’t believe anybody else recognized it at the time, but little 12 year old me did. Actually I saw it very clearly, the distress and the discomfort.  Perhaps it was very apparent to me that Frank suffered from a comparable affliction to one I had; an apprehension to a noisy existence.
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The night ended and my family spoke of what a nice man Frank was, but with every mention of his name came a condescending breath of pity, of observed loneliness. I did not partake. That would have been cruel. Those comments left me a little less jolly so I folded my deck and headed off to bed. I continued to exist after that night of course, unchanged, simply being as I was without ever giving another thought towards my neighbor Frank. At least not until he died. Yeah, Frank is dead.
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I hope I go like him… alone and asleep.
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n

A Marvelous Affair 

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A few options he did have within that marvelous affair they called free will. A choice of residence, of religion, of retirement; all of this bundled together and toted about as a cosmic perfection. Thus this life he had so meticulously created with his perfect house and perfect wife had some meaning… It’s truly all really trivial and since he has shifted his cares I can’t clearly see him as anything other than an arrogant prick because of this inherent stupidity that went along with his material growth. Shoddy morality leaked from his every pore, and it made me feel sickly. I don’t talk to him much anymore.
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n

Oddities

Now this is not based off of anything factual as of now… Purely an imagined scenario in which there is a link between creativity and insanity.
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This idea has been floating about in my head for a little while but it has never been fleshed out, here I simply want to lay the foundation for a larger and more directed pattern of thought. First I will start with the idea that creativity comes at the cost of reason… And function.
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I find that anyone with a purely creative brain will attack and engage upon desire and interpretation as if it’s a gold gilded certainty, creatives seem to jump into holes far deeper than they should… Mostly because a sense of reason has been impaired, inhibited… muted.
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Within past “creative flows” that I’ve experienced, there was this detachment, those lovely and surreal escapades found within minute action. I find it to be almost inexplicable, save for one metaphor I have long linked it to.
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The splitting of a single hair into a thousand branches of thought, a strand of hair that normally would never be made into anything more is taken and separated. Split into thousands of supports, of branches on a tree of substantial perception. It is lovely in the sense that thinking in detached ways does in my opinion bring out a greater understanding for life, and give greater weight to the good and bad we experience daily.
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Although along with more pronounced and unrealistic thought comes a susceptibility to insanity. In little doses I find a certain frustration creep into my mind. Doubtful of existence and reality my thoughts will be twisted up into a mound of flailing hands with nothing to grasp. So instead they turn inwards to wards me, peeling lips from my face and holding eyelids open forcing me to see those icky secretions of creativity. The refuses left behind. The residue.
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Whenever a thought is made or a face is sculpted to form there is waste, leftovers… And I feel that to deal with that excess can be one of the hardest things for a delusional to get behind. The function of the dysfunctional individual is desperately stranded and turned back to the pit of impossibility.
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n