Reading an extremely fucked up book: The Death of Bees.
I suggest you read it.
Growing up without a father is raising children without
an adequate mother is teen pregnancy and poverty is life selling
drugs is prostitution and addiction is...
This book has my mind all fucked up.
Excerpt of imaginary book that might soon become
a tangible idea (oxymoron):
"The qualms of my reflection are stopped by the
palpable force of the mirror. You are just a ghost in glass, dotted with
the drops of rain. What say do you have in the actions I take? You just reflect
my guilt and sorrow. Tell me things I already know, like your mind holds a
different dimension than my own. Dare you point your finger in our face and
scream that the fault falls on my shoulders? What right do you have
to separate our bodies, and blame one for the actions of another? We
are we not I. What right do you have to hold superiority to me, when you just
mirror the inferior me? Dare you judge like you would've done differently, when
you can make no decisions of your own? I must take a mirror with me
everywhere, so your idiocy can be stopped when you are there mirroring the same
mistakes as I. Now you hold no greater position, you sit on no higher of a
pedestal. You are me not you. Now laugh at me! You can't! It was you as well!
You were there! You cannot judge your reflection!"
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