Transmissions

When all the pieces of armor have been pried away and there's nothing left to hide, that's when you can call yourself fearless.

Everything is out on the table; there's absolutely nothing left to dig up and exploit to stab me in the back.

I guess all I've got to look forward to now that all the (cheap) thrills are gone is a new outlook or infinite weight time where the yesterdays are a vague memory and the tomorrows are a blurred resentment. Its funny how fear is something so hated and limiting, and we piss our whole lives away trying to ignore it and wishing it would blow over like a phase, but when the fear is over come and the restraints are cut all we want back is the comfort of knowing there's something to maintain.

Who am I without my secrets?
Who am I without my wrongdoings?
Who am I without my structure?

Face it: we're voluntarily constricting ourselves with these mindless compulsion routines of denying the truths and protecting the skeletons that we are completely lost and worthless without them.

Who wants to hear about the guy that embraced himself?
Who wants to hear about the guy with the dark past?
Who wants to hear about the guy that has no back to be talked behind?

Would it scare you to hear his (w)horror stories from his own lips and know that he isn't afraid?

Tell him something you can't stand to remember or own up to. Say it good and explain every sickening little detail. Doesn't it hurt your mouth?

We're in love with ou(r/t) fear, and being free (as much as we glamorize it) kills us. Whether it be of boredom or lack of stability, we don't love the exhilaration of untouchable status. We love our comfort.

We love our fear.
We love our pain.
We love our hurt.
We love our sadness.
We love our God.
We love our stupidity.
We love our comfort.

We love our fear.
This is all.

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