Dear Diary
I hate how I have fallen pray to you. Why the need to pen down my life has suddenly become a thing to do. What do you want me to write about? Do you want me to blabber about how the world has become so predictable, how easy it has become to see people inflicting control over people, how the tools of mass communication have pierced into out consciousness and have resulted in some branded humanity. Yes I hate it, it has made me hate people, simply because they let themselves preach without even looking at the rabbit hole, how easily they have accepted mass perceptions, how afraid they have to become to find their individual space, and how they are successfully smothering every chance of liberation.

Go on and be stuck in this paradigm, if a circle, a livelihood, recognition and a little popularity helps you do so. Go on navigate through the stream of certainty, the only thing I hope is that once you reach the shore of certainty you realize that all of the shit you went through which you exclaimed in order to get people to feel certain kind of emotion for you was just pure non sense. Tell me diary, you tell me, why are you so certain with your hard cover with a tree on it, one index page and 234 ruled sheets? Why? Why do you need some external thing to draw a picture onto you? Why do you want a writer to string words into profound patterns?

I mean fuck it even science is on my side now. Quantum Uncertainty leavers reality to infinite permutations then why the FAAAACCCCCCK do you chose only one? I hate it when in a room full of people I am sure that no one can hurt me. Paranoia would be such a turn on.


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