The Warped Practice of Our Managed Presence
How strange this fear we fondle— always heating up to quicken a pulse. Urgently magnifying every thought to lance a healed wound. Far too eager to dismiss a smoothly wrapped deception. It's as if we quake to undermine our own expression of sought acceptance. The magnitude of our intentional incompetence is an underwhelming flaw— a raw nerve dangling inept. A failure to grasp otherness. And I weep across this threshold of unraveling.
Written July 24, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.