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She scatters seeds like sugar-coated candy over cracked mental walls and where they land, the ideas spread, growing and multiplying. Viral. A little peek into Maureen's mind, every bit as incohe...
There's an art to it, to being incomprehensible in just the right way, necessary in a time when no one in the world listens. No one bothers to pay attention to the simple message, the one they've heard before. A whole world of people who live with blinders on, ignoring ignoring IGNORING, little rats in a sadomasochistic maze where food and pain come hand in hand. So she finds the right words, the right actions, the way to slip a flaming sliver of truth into elaborate performances with Saran Wrap and a bag of Doritos, sneaking the idea past the blinders and into the heads of those around her, wrapped inside a thick curtain of "What the fuck?" and if they dismiss it as bullshit--
It's NOT fine. It's NOT. The ego demands, the ego needs to be fed, personality expanding to draw attention to the message which underlies every action on an endless stage. Small people can't shatter the self-imposed boundaries of the masses, and she is determined to not be small, to grow and fill the space with every word from her lips running like electricity through the crowds. Reaching, grabbing, planting hooks to pull every eye towards her, drama drama DRAMA, curtains of obfuscation around something crystalline and perfect in her own mind. She scatters seeds like sugar-coated candy over cracked mental walls and where they land, the ideas spread, growing and multiplying. Viral.
She is the vessel, she is the message, she is the demanding goddess that watches over the masses, she is the virus, infecting everything she touches, she will be the voice that urges change, that remains with lovers, friends, with everything she's broken just because she could. She must be worshipped, she must reach out and touch and mold, before she is molded herself, before the voice inside her goes dead and there's nothing left to burn.
She is the sacrificial victim on this altar, bleeding her life away in technicolor rivulets, she is drowning in the ocean of things ignored, she is burning burning BURNING for those around her, and if she takes, and takes often, it's only because no one sees the giving, the constant giving, the constant CHANGE, that she emits with every waking breath. They must give her more, lest she die, lest the barriers between performance and identity fade entirely, lest she become nothing more than an empty vessel forgetting its own message. There is no balancing point, just a need for MORE: more art, more indulgence, more sacrifice, more ego.
No, they will never understand, but that's good. What people understand, they dismiss, so she will play the virgin, the harlot, the madwoman, the priestess, screaming where she should whisper, taking everything into herself and spitting it out in distorted reflections while people can still SEE.
The performance never ends.