#societal collapse

[epitome-the-burnkid-viii]

[groanings-0f-a-dying-empire]

RACE WARS ARE BEING PREPARED. MANY "BLACKS" WILL BE BLINDSIDED. JUDGMENT IS APPROACHING....

[xxapocryphiliaxx]

I always heard that the revolution won’t be televised. It wasn’t.

I hadn’t record as much as I had wished either. This time around, I found that this life wasnt so bad, and that it needed to be cherished. Sometimes I’ll feel sick and sad about it all. Other times I feel nothing on it at all. In fact, more than anything, I crave it during the times I feel nothing. Because feeling nothing can be easily overwritten by adrenaline. And to feel sickness over nothingness is a step above nothingness alone.

The mix I’ve described— though really I used terms of “either/or” when it’s most commonly both —is the emotion I cannot name. My page one. It’s what I feel a lot of the time. This camera and it’s contents, the memories within it, feel more real than the event that occurred. For whatever reason, I can never feel things in that moment. As I think about it, it makes me sad that it’s something I have no means to fix. But when I think about it now, I no longer have that ache. A delay. I wonder how I’ll feel about writing this three months from now. Six. A year. I might not even remember it by then, and by that point it will not matter. I find things in my camera roll— most of it, actually— that I do not remember. Papers even. Notebooks that I couldn’t carry in my bag. Micro-SD cards are much lighter to carry than their physical contents, and much easier to protect than paper. Far less people think to collect them. Paper was far more favored because people were uncertain if EMP’s would render everything digital useless. Fear mongering over the unknown seemed to render them useless. I am the only person that I know of to be carrying a camera, and nobody even thinks to steal it off of me even for spare parts.

I’m not a trustworthy narrator. I don’t think anyone is. But the fallacy that killed the Old World was that you should not trust your own eyes, because there is someone out there who can see and think for you. The only narrator whom you can truly trust is yourself. This camera and it’s contents are yours. It’s filled with a story other than your own to feel. Something to distract yourself from life as we know it. If I make it out, this should end up anywhere north of Nomans. If this ends up in Old World Minnesota boundaries, where it still occasionally snows, I’d have reached where I generally intend to go. And if this, somehow and for some reason beyond my prediction, go just a few miles higher beyond the Canadian boarder, then it was not by my hand. To those north of the boarder, nothing I can say will justify the things i’ve done, and I do not hope that you choose to forgive me regardless.

[xxapocryphiliaxx]

I can’t tell you how to survive. I cant even tell you why I did.

I remember seeing videos of people claiming to be former prisoners of war. I took notes, though I knew better to know that’s not how I survived the first time. Nonetheless, I was convinced I had continued living wrong, because I had no longer known the pain I had once felt.

This is a physical pain. Not so much a mental one. Not one that is not derived from physical circumstance, anyway. Others say they felt filthy despite fleeing. I say I was untouchable before, and now I feel nothing on it at all. I like to think that if an oldworld therapist dug around my brain enough and plucked out all the parasites, I’d be better. But I will ever occasionally look at myself and realize that I do not want someones filthy fingers having any hand over my thought. Trading trust for pain is pointless. I know I should feel something, but I do not. It is a fact that I can sit with. Something I ingrained in my memory for so long only so others can forget. I can forget now. But I won’t. Because forgetting is the day I decide I am not real, and that I am not worthy of my own life.

Scars remain on the tips of my fingers where I clawed out through the loose dirt of an old shed. My hands were splintered by chips of wood from the wall, old, broken glass, thorns from the tree above, the serrated edge of a bottle cap, a rusty nail, over the course of days. It was hot, and I still feel shame for the days I didn’t claw and only laid there. Nothing more than an insect, captured and left to rot whenever I wasn’t entertaining. Wriggling around on my back, pulling at my limbs, biting until the day I was struck head first into the wall. I hadn’t cried until that point. When I was exhausted for days after the fact but had convinced myself that I would die if I slept on an unnursed concussion. I believe it was delerium that made me abandon my escape hole. I’d jumped between fearing sudden death to calling for it sooner enough that eventually I’d followed both.

I wont tell you how i did it. Not on the first page. It still makes me bite my cheek to think about. But I ran. I ran down the dry dirt path while stones and thorns dug into my bare feet. I did not care for living. I cared for spite. I flipped countless latches, releasing every other body trapped here. It was quiet at first, other than the blood pumping in my ears and the sync of my feet hitting the ground. Then it was louder. People peaking out, hesitant to flee. Then more foot steps. People yelling. Others begging to be next. The sound quickly drowned out the distant cicadas. A girl with grown out blue hair joins me on the other row, prying open doors. I didn’t think I could feel any more adrenaline until she cursed out crying. Despite myself, I looked back. Even stupider, I stopped when I saw her in the dirt sobbing out agonizing noises while those she previously freed ran past her. I don’t remember the thoughts going through my head, but I gravitated towards her. I felt an odd disregard to myself or anything that would happen after this. Inside the door she sat trembling in front of while spewing a slurry of broken curses was what used to be a man. I grabbed her shoulder, then her arm, trying to get her to stand. She pleads to save him. She swears he’s alive and deserves a chance to make it out, but the only life I see are the buzzing wings of flies. Nonetheless, I had argued too long to care. I’d die ashamed and useless if I left her and die being nothing but stubborn if I stayed. So I lifted a wretchedly stenched arm over my shoulder and we dragged the obviously rotting corpse to freedom.

[lizsmemes]

[lizsmemes]

every fking day

[lizsmemes]

societal collapse meme dump 😩

[epitome-the-burnkid-viii]

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