I told people I love America. That's such a lie; I do not, in fact, love America. What has really happened has been a love for the ideals, the fleeting respects of a country that could never really exist.
Where is the existentialist paradise? I do not require much; in fact, I request a country, a state, a plot of land where I am simply not protected from myself. That's what I want; a bare exposure to reality, to catch a glimpse of Cthulu, or some nameless inevitability we call death or kismet.
My God! I could really think you dead, that you could create a real world of suffering. And I know it to be true, that suffering exists. The spark of the glimpse of terror, the finger on the axis of reality, and then to have it yanked away: that is more torturous than any other pain I've thus far encountered. It is an all-encompassing throb from the neck to the pit of the stomach, a scorched line extending outward; a yearning for convalescence from this state of being where people do not follow the golden rule. I do not like being told what to do, or how to do it, on any level; I'm sure no one else does either.
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