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i think i’m going to be sick
in case you’re wondering why i can appear so hard-line when talking about the corrosive affects of labor, this is why. it is not an exaggeration at all to say that this version of myself has died - rather, was murdered. i am now incapable of joy.
i would give anything for freedom to (once again) no longer be my ideal.
“One last fundamental difference: the longing for freedom, the instinct for happiness and the subtleties of feeling for freedom belong just as necessarily to slave-morality as the art and fanaticism of reverence and devotion are regular symptoms of an aristocratic way of thinking and valuing.” N,JGB
even just a few months ago, i had the enviable position of being frustrated with my predicament. my body has gone stiff after thrashing about in agony; i’m unable to even muster a pitiful twitch. my eyes have dulled; adorno’s nightmare has been realized in my silent crawl onward.
i legitimately cannot imagine a set of circumstances that would cause me to emote in this way any more. occasionally a smile breaches my lips; but happiness no longer. i mean it when i say she was murdered.