There is much violence littered within each of us, flowing in excess throughout our veins.
Upon waking we feel this — our hunger unmet; our desire always out of reach
We see ourselves in the mirror, not liking what we see, not wanting what we are
We make ourselves presentable, each of us as prostitutes, laying open to be desired
We are all prey to the masses, always rising to their expectations
Like this, regardless of consciousness, we are nothing more than animal, the violence strewn from our lonely beginning to a much lonelier end.
Our universal goal will always be to rid ourselves of such existential loneliness, only to be understood, to be accepted — but what is left of that without the violence we commit on ourselves?
A world without violence would be a world without beauty; without pleasure; without art.
It would be a world where we’d be met with an even greater anguish than what we have now.
We’d be left in a world of much taboo, and without the human urge to transgress them.
Our loneliness would turn to desperation, and in desperation our only joy would come from the sensuality of suicide.
We are only lying to ourselves by wanting peace for us all, for we are blind to see that it's been with us all along
True peace only comes from within violence: from death and recreational sex.