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About Deviant Artist LarathainMale/United States Groups :iconlove-poems-unlimited: Love-Poems-Unlimited
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Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
"Fools" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence



The hold of silence lingers on
Words describing without defining yon
A subtle roar in mute that grows
None of heart and soul, that hear, it shows
A virus racing through the empty shells
Finding deeper and darker hells
Planes of degenerate and disgust in make
Absent to the line they break
The trail behind was one of more than old
Days of sun to spirits warm uncold
Tines that twist a tremor in my soul
Resonate together with a hole
A piece of plunder by the sea of hollow
The greed they worship commands: swallow!
Cannibals keening in the madness of "sole"
Dearth the hearth of heart that is our whole
In the shadow of this age where darkness fell
The only remain is the silence to tell
And whispered by the sound of silence
The Sound of Silence
Written by Paul Simon
Performed by Disturbed
Addition by Larathain
(mutilated lungs, effectively lost one, and one kidney)

(watching Firefly)

Having been on the lab table of a government, and cut upon, myself, I can empathize with River. It haunts you. More than just the scars and bad memories, there is an extreme of feeling surrounded and so alone that you can't remember what it ever felt like to have someone you can trust, someone that cares, or even what warmth felt like, these horrors always arrive into someone's life with psychological damage of some sort, some would say that I am fortunate that the damage I've incurred is relatively minimal compared to others who acquire tics, unconscious emotional behavioral changes, mental disposition transmission and changes, nightmares, people lose their ability to be social, become bi-polar, reclusive, and eventually the feeling of being alone gets so profound that self harm and mutilation occur, and eventually lead to death or suicide. Her story is the only one I've encountered where someone may have been capable of understanding something of what I've endured.
My lungs this time
Damage already done, top halves of my lungs are dead and were made to be in such a way that they wouldn't have the possibility to recover
There is a fine line between life and death. What a slave would offer definition to his/her existence is a subjective inquiry, but the concept of either constitute is no less significant to him/her. When all love and happiness is gone from your life, and all those you meet are filled with hate and negativity, is that life anymore? What about when you have all this darkness inside of you, terrible and horrific memories, experiences darker than black itself, and nobody around of similar morals to share your pain? When silence is the only companion you know for years, and the dearth of that basic human necessity for contact becomes an all consuming living nightmare, would you find more in common with the dead who can no longer be heard? What is the difference between life and death?
Between life and death
The last question is rhetorical
(A poem about a true story, walking down a highway with a punctured neck, trailing blood)

I remember the crimson snow that fell like rain
Against the soul of sanity's constrain
Upon a road my body swayed
Consciousness gone, and will waylaid

I remember the blade that pierced my throat
I remember the red stain stream unto a moat
For years in darkness, a jail within
And then sent to jail while absent a sin

That river of red for more than an hour
A constant wonder why my life didn't devour
I watched the fall upon the street
Soaked my shoes, the red my feet

Blurry control, the wavering memory
Existence without my presence, I see
Painted hands that scream a sea
I remember tissue between my fingers on me

Platelets running by a machine
Ignored a nightmare more obscene
There, within, I could not speak
Could not breathe, or her name to seek

Her voice that should have been with me
Distances I cannot see
Chasms of depths truly unexplored
The mindless unrelate their abject bored

Outside the door, inside a hole
Stepping in shadows that swallow you whole
Knocking on the stairway last
When you've made your final past


A joke returns from every face
Like the steps of red in pace
Mirrors of empty reflect their eyes
Hollow, hate, and full of lies


I remember a tremor, held so still
I remember, my intrepid sill
The precipice where will will lead
Freedom found within a thirsty seed
Do you know what it is like to need to speak to someone about what you've endured? That there is nobody you do, or can, trust with such a conversation? How about when you can't because of the very things that have happened to you? How horrific they are, that if you did tell a stranger (which I never would) from the sheer volume and number of circumstances, imagine where each individual situation seems a nightmare in and of itself, how could they believe someone has endured all of them and is still standing, not to mention still sane. The weight you cannot share but cannot bear alone, it is mine, and mine alone. Nobody in the history of humanity knows what that is like. I have a memory of telling a doctor some of the ways I've been mutilated, he instantly told me he thought I was lying. Do you understand what that is like? Now knowing that even if I did try to tell someone, they might just call me a liar. Do you have any idea what that does to someone who has truly endured horror? Have you had pieces and parts cut from your body?
The greeting silence
For a soon to be dead man
The last iota of humanity
A ghost, this memory. Ever since I was allowed to recall the fact that they had my body for 3 weeks. I was unconscious in a hospital and have no idea what they were doing, or what they did, to my body. I remember that Ashley used the machine to stab me in the neck, it was not my will, or desire, to die. I constantly wonder what else has been done to me. And what has been. The two continue to grip my heart so, condensing the sentiments and their mass, as if in anticipation of the fire that was just kindled within. The light explodes all other thought from my mind, and then the deep dark absence afterward, the lack of answers and a way to acquire them, sets in. The universe feels as though it is pulling away from you, a feeling of loneliness returns magnified, and then guilt, pain, sorrow the likes of which defy the word itself, and then resolve, resolution for freedom, and not just for me, but so that no innocent, especially the pure in kind, are ever harmed ever again.
My moments of consciousness are shorter and fewer now. It is an abstract sensation, but still soaked with sentiment, dying this way.

They are making the death slow and terrible, when you consider the masses and their merry mother marriage to malice and stupidity, it makes sense that you/they would do so, being what you are.
Extending the macabre
Their version of a slow death is this...

(My life)
To be a victim of severe mutilation and then to have someone who claims to love you, my family, who had seen what had happened to me through use of the machine, tell you that it didn't happen, was a horror that I can't even begin to explain all of its effects. It hurts in multiple dimensions simultaneously and in differing intensities. I go back to one of the moments in my mind, where I was forced to go to the kapolei lot across from Wal-Mart against my will, my body in control by a machine, just so Ashley Silao could shoot 8-9 bullets (my memory gets foggy after the 8th shot) into my stomach for shits and giggles.

The loneliness, the betrayal, that consuming feeling of being more alone than in the simple dimensional paradigm of physicality but by many layers of conceptual reality. One being mores. Morally, I would not stand or sit idly by while horror of this sort was being done to someone, yet in that regard of belief and sentiment, I am alone. Self-interest in the realm of pure greed, not self preservation, conducts the actions of everyone around me to sit by, watch, laugh, and enjoy my mutilations, misery, and torture like some sort of movie.

My mind keeps returning to a concept, a word, that with its every inspection begins to hold more meaning to me: "conviction"

"Good"....That hallow we as a species claim to hold up with such reverence, attribute so much more significance than life itself, is no longer present within all of humanity once I die. I have seen the future without the use of any machine, it is more than obvious and apparent to any of average intelligence at a mere half-hearted glance at analysis.

A part of me just cannot believe it has come to this. That the end is upon me, that despite the fact that everyone dies alone, I died more alone than any can or ever will. Good was betrayed by the very heart of humanity itself. Stabbed in the back, blind-sided, the valor and virtue of right never saw it coming, but I did, right before the evil killed me too.
The moments before it
The final it anyone ever has
Today I experienced another muscle spasm and a pain so sharp I could no longer move, at all, without experiencing it. I always could feel the numb localized from where the pole went through my body, numb due to the browser and out of my control, but today I realize I will live with that pain and damage for the rest of my life because of her. And she doesn't care at all. As a matter of fact, it would seem, from the empirical evidence, that she enjoys inflicting such profound pain. (Oct 22)
How does it find an end? How can I bring the threshold to pass? Hours, days, weeks, months, years I have spent wondering how now. "Why?" was the first question that came to my mind. This torture, this horror. It's endurance, it's closeness, the haunting goes beyond intimate.
An intimate nightmare
Cut, torn, ripped, in every way someone can imagine
During my life, I have perceived other individuals suffer through the circumstance of a death sentence. A barely humanely delivered monologue from someone so cold, telling them of how their their life is short, and how the angel of death looms just above their head, about to steal from them any chance at every beauty that being alive has to offer in its endless possibility.

I have had my emotions stolen from me. The absence feels most haunting. It is a confusing jumble of loss, sorrow, bereft, absent without cause, leaving with the all too familiar echo of the spectre of "why?". And that is for the loss of emotion.

I am about to die. Murdered. My light stolen forever from life, from the magic music of being alive, from right, from sacred, from me.

The emptiness haunts me.

Is it worse than what/how I would feel if my life wasn't being endlessly tortured in more ways than can be communicated? Would I feel worse about being soon to be murdered?

How odd that I am allowed to feel about its abscence, but not about the experience itself. The theft. The more torture therein. The loss of humanity. My soul.
Final sentence
Death sentence
I have often wondered how I would like to spend my life. What experiences I would love to live, what scenes and events I want to perceive, what feelings and sentiments I want to experience, the first that I can remember being most important is the sensation of finding the perfect woman and having her fall in love with me. Discovering her virtues, endless hours of conversation, all with the light and warmth of love in her eyes, just for me. As my mortality comes to the door of death, I continuously look back to my years, realize I deserved none of the horrors I've endured, and that I will die as alone as anyone could ever offer to thought profound.

The most important is creating world peace. It is, after all, what I will die for.
That moment when you realize they killed my wife and, using the browser, forced me to cut myself with the same kitchen knife they used to murder her
My consciousness returns in starts and segments, yet I can feel it being stolen away from me

What was once a conversation of soul is now a whisper fading into the black

A rushing stream of life, teeming with resonance of the sun

Now a shadow transparent, the echo of a ember from a flame drawn thin by the scar lines of a snowflake sorrow

Each unique falling of a cold core storm, the flashes of lightning bite into the sole sign that once there was more

Fading. Like the breath of the final moments one claws for, not yet ready to go quiet into the deepest lonely in parting

My fading echo
Fading echo
I heard a voice and it was my own
I realized it was more me than I am
I heard its pain, I heard its message
It gave me a warning
It was about to be murdered
It broke free with just enough strength left to warn me
I was about to die forever

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Being repeatedly raped is a consistent theft
Each and every one, a flay
Ripping deeper than flesh, pain unimaginable
A worldwide nightmare, taunting you, evil's play

...A cult of cowards that mock
A crowd of callous assimilates
Apathy and ignorance, sick, their ill
Torture for more, cry the replicates

Their demented desire of murder/suicide
No pale story of horror and the endless hunger of malice
Their glee a testament, define their lives
Innocent blood to fountain their chalice

"Why" is a lost to their mindless way
A murder of crow that caw: "good" beliefs
Hypocrisy and delusions countless
Scapegoats claimed but their mirror is thieves

Carrion that once was gleaming mores
Their beaks caw their ill in desire
Circling the dying in masses, scores
Celebrating the death of good, their pyre

Meals of sugared words and offal beneath
Lies of comfort absent true gift
Screams they silence, and terrible still
I'm falling alone within their rift

Grave are these, each and all
"Significant" and "serious" they ignore
A mindless void where thought should tell
Where sight is more than mirror and door

Daily, weekly, years and through
The maiden of iron, re-locks
Reopened and shifted, inside they view
Slamming again and laughter: my clocks

How many people pass, and depart, their see
A count I cannot make
Another step, another device
Forced in silence, I bear their take

I'm innocent, and most do know
My goodly nature and heart
But the torture resumes, next, again
No mercy ever seen to start

Chains of spiked links, to wrist
Legs are swollen, and worse
Burns and tears stolen, and will
Against my soul, of course

Burglary of memory
Another game they craft
To repeat the raping viral evil
Courting coursing, they graft

Tables, tools, they step again
Terrors untold, words can't impart
Fear won't infect me, their frustration plain
Back a step, the devil's cart

Applications the heartless can't conceive
Emotions of light or the weight of wrong
Their limbs of mental weakness crumble
Unable to build/create my strong

Silent is the scream of rape
Ever echoing in your being
The worst of weights within, alone
Never heard; but hidden, you bring

The reflection always inside. A whirlwind roll.
A mind bled rend; A soul slashed quake
The horror of living after their toll
Chasing a dawn not simple to make

The unspeakable, is held in it
Words won't leave by this victim willed
Stolen in malice from apathy's pit
Harm made worse by theft's so stilled

Individual and personal: rape's true take
Unique and personal too profound, this evil without name
Never a joke but met by laugh
Always by those so ignorant it's insane

The fog that follows, the nightmare nests
Seeing your road is a memory lost
The feeling of "lost", it takes on a new mean
Something without word, you meet in the cost
There are some pains that nobody can understand.
There is more.
Several times I had to stop. This was far too personal and painful.
(Truly? This is untitled)

Temperature drops
The lines in coil
Deep mountain tops
A floor they soil

A quelled ripped scream
A darker boil
The berg breached stream
The echo roils

Quantified, and dashes lead
Stupefied, bright breaks creed
The map of trails and trials assail
Steps of shadow in the brail

Bleed to haze within the air
Wounds-a-weep to heaven's stair
The dream-like smoke within the frame
The prison to heat of ice's name

Vacate, position of void in form
The clear returns fore-after the storm
Silence and sorrow soak a sky
Where dust of dreams rebuke to cry

The shatter to ear, the rumble roars
A boat capsized, and missing oars
Thunderclap screams, vibrating waves
The death of the purge, and innocence?...slaves...
From inside of me
Truly? Untitled
This is about my life, all of it, and how I feel right now. Hurt, bereft, bereaved, grieving, sorrowful, in every kind of pain there is...and more...
"Reason lies in harmony with truth, else truth is a lie." - Drizzt Do'Urden

The barren circles beneath your feet
The tread of trudge that tills a tear
The hole within the edge is black
The life thread no one would will to wear

Soles long blistered and bruised blood hands
Knees are lines of fighting falls
Headaches flash, a machine makes numb
Sociopaths in malice calls

Scars upon the skin, and within the deep
Never having time to heal
Pain of the deepest, buried in malicious
Voyeurs view but cannot feel

These blinded are staring at pages profound
Scribed in full and more
Apathetic faces turn to miss
The discovery of life's cell door

Round and round, the spinning deep
Excavating more than soil
The walls of eternal grow about
The future bound to coil

"Humanity" is more than life
More than concepts of sentiments abstract
More than feeling and acts of whim
More than animal alive's react

What we craft and leave behind
What beauty is born, we see
Horrid and hideous, the terrible screams
When good is lost, and so not free

History is more than words
The signs, we create by will
What fate will find the after of all
If this we follow to still

The hands of humanity can reach the edge
The hole, not yet, too deep
But oh so soon your fingers will miss
If these circles are what you keep
Going in circles
When the fate is found that forever more your future is to be lost within repetition
An endless cycle from which there is no escape humanity
Homo-sapiens, your final hour for a better future, one of good, one of light, one of the pure quality that we all know is the true mark of elevation above all other existence and consciousness, has come.
Concepts: "Misery"

Unanswerable grief. There is a pain too profound in its pierce for words. The only way someone could know its touch, even begin to comprehend or fathom its very existence is to experience their own state of pure misery, a place like of a unique web of horrible and terrible circumstances too dark for words. I have experienced such pain. I live in it every second of every day. Truly, there is not a single person I have ever met, save for my murdered wife, capable of understanding or even comprehending the true gravity, the full perception (every perspective), of what it is I endure. The way others have looked at me after I tell to them a mere portion of my pain: empty. As if they cannot simply empathize or verbalize what it is they should or do feel. They know that they should feel bad for me, I can see it in their eyes. But it is stolen away by a bigger realization that paralyzes them. They feel overwhelmed by it. My situation of circumstances drives their feeble mind to a place of pure darkness more profound than their mind is capable of comprehending or of forming a map of, or some sort of mental graph that would allow them insight to its depths and heights. So, they collapse. Their mind breaks down. Shuts off. Their gaze goes vacant, they see the void in which I fall, see no way out, and their mind vanishes as surely as my future of possibility in living within their world. Somewhere deep within them, they see death. The final horror from which most weakness flees without regard to direction, unless the thought is which direction will better help them flee from it.

For that is the true destination for pure misery. A horror, a nightmare, that place with no road from which to travel to escape its environs. The only egress is death. And in so peering into the truest of darkness, their consciousness comes to be within mere inches away from death. They gaze into the hollow of the beneath, into the sockets of the oldest evil, into the empty that comes to consume us all.

None I meet are able to reconcile and process that sight or remain so close to such a horror of darkness. Something they forget: imagine living there, imagine trading places with me, to be so consumed within that darkness, absolutely alone.

You have a mere glimpse and recoil. I live there.
Concept: Misery
Concept: Misery
(*To the aphorism that is a lie: "time heals all wounds")

Waiting for time

The seconds tick and fade to close
The trickle remedy of the tock
The segment's seal of restore
The regal of the clock

The passing passage of past
The missing of a minute
The corridors of chaos' crawl
The healing halls: a finite

The rails of the regal ride
The puissant pierce of passion
The sentiment stars of alive's abide
The spring to summer's fashion

The streets of sacred's haven
The hallows of heaven's fell
When movement is the substance of measure
What made hollow, is the hell

The trace of touch, when vacant
The wounds to trails of more
Lost as life without the line
As a song is absent a score

The space before the straight
The pause a pall to weak
The hole that eats the ever of light
The dawn that's absent weeks

Bereft the beauty of born
Before the behind of gone
Months won't manifest, are torn
Floating limbo of the long

The years of yearn from whole
The hope to hold in heal
The hours of decades lost the prayer
The dark that light won't feel

The centuries so stolen, stale
The dust of dismal, darkens
The fading light of soul to fail
The whisper of death so harkens

Millennium won't lightyear evermore
The circumference of starlight's shatter
The scream that echoed to the door
When mean was lost to matter
Waiting for time
To the aphorism that is a lie: "time heals all wounds"



United States
"Some people create, others are simply created..." ~ L.N.S. (me)
(literary art, music, knowledge, etc.) is what this statement meant by the word: "create"

"Reason: That thing everyone is born with but something that not everyone possesses" - Me

It has come to my attention that an ex-girlfriend/creeper/stalker has been sending people whom comment on my art messages filled with negativity. I suffered from Amnesia because of her (though my mind is attempting a repair of sorts, the situation is convolutedly complex, I can create new long term memories but with difficulty, and the process has been stressful and filled with a loss in many facets of my life, but that doesn't mean I will constantly forget those that I meet, and am incapable of creating new memories at all, it is too complicated to put here in this place...if you are interested, ask me sometime...) not to mention the loss perceived by a great series of paradigms within the memory of my life have been stolen from me. I was attacked, and thus shot, in the head, by the malevolent deluded desires of this psychotic ex-girlfriend whom forms self-delusions and lies compulsively, and frequently, in an attempt to make herself seem the victim when in fact she is nowhere near vindicated of her veracity and validity as the villain. She has murdered many, and each time has deluded others into believing it was an accident or that she was innocent. (car accidents are her specialty) Her diagnosis of narcissism/psychopathy(a lack of empathy and true moral insanity)/pretentiousness/personal-self-delusion/violence-absent-rational-cause is valid and true, I held her hand through therapy, and can tell you, she is nothing and nowhere near compassionate or caring. Just selfish/avaricious, and malicious to anyone whom ever has loved or cared about her. (at least in my experience) I have tried to message her, tried to contact her, tried to help her, but she has refused any and all attempts at repairing her damaged mind and soul. I honestly wish she would return to the light, and reject the ravenous retarded regal-less rage machine she has become.

Moving on...

"I believe honesty is an important facet of community. I offer honesty and truth to every singularity of sentience I encounter and expect the same in return. Honesty helps us grow and helps us reach higher heights of personal growth previously unattainable because of our inherent singular place of perspective: "being inside of your vessel." Sometimes there is a benefit of having someone share with you their perspective, as they can perceive from a place that you cannot: "outside of yourself." The understanding of which, and profundity of which, I'm sure, is not lost on you." - Me

"Being a realist myself, I find the prejudiced opinion that realists and pessimists are the same and are cowardly by hiding in the shadows, distant to community, disrespectful and ill-founded. Being a realist is to understand that there are certain truths to the-universe/all-that-there-is that cannot be denied. To never lie to yourself, or allow yourself to be mislead by the burdens of self-delusion, narrow-mindedness, prejudice, or wishful thinking. To remain within the realms of perspective and perception offered the monikers: "logical thought", "rational possibility", and "truth."

I do know that some use certain facts found within such an advanced understanding of intellect and profundity to rationalize removing oneself from society as a whole because it is, logically, safer. If someone were to do so, I agree with you, that person is, indeed, cowardly and simply using half-truths to deny the existence of any other empirical evidence to acquire. Do you know every human being that is currently alive? No? Then you cannot say that EVERY situation of human interaction will be conducted or experienced in a negative manner. There could very well be good people out there, and some people who were once evil or who had committed negative actions CAN indeed come back to the light of compassion and righteousness.

That is to say, can you still maintain a wary perspective of Americans because most of them are selfish, self-possessed, pretentious, avaricious, apathetic feed machines that only want one thing: "more." Yes, yes you can. Does that mean you should treat them all in such a manner or even negatively at all? No, it does not. You should give people a chance to prove their worth and character before you judge them unfairly based on prejudice and stereotypes. There is a reason stereotypes are called stereotypes and not: "facts." It is a separate concept entirely.

If someone were to say: "most people of pure Irish genetic descent have pale white skin." That is a truth. Most of the people who are Irish do indeed have pale white skin. But if you were to say: "all Irish people possess pale white skin." That is not a truth, but merely a personal prejudice of perception on their part. There is, indeed, at least one difference between pessimists and realists, which would explain why they are two separate words: "they are two different paradigms of perception/concepts." -Me

Someone once said: "Art doesn't come from happiness"...

I say: "Most often, it doesn't. That is true, and yet, sometimes, it does. Sometimes, the purest sentiments construct the most elegant and graceful frames of focus, the most pristine purity of sensation within sentiment is profound. Welcome to art, where magic and majesty mystify the mind, send the soul screaming in the spikes of ecstasy found within the significant and special summits of sophistication found by the star-flares of starlight within the sensation of soaring that our soul feels when we sense that rare, almost tangible, sensation of being alive. Welcome to sentience. Welcome to soul. Welcome to Starlight." - Me

"If something is the truth, don't waste time with bothering in the attempt to confuse and corrupt ascertaining the truth by trying to label it as something else, don't distort reality or lie to or delude yourself, it is simply this: "the truth," and nothing else..." -Me

"Kind words can save and change lives. You never know what may, or may not, find it's way to significance in the consciousness of another being's sentience. I hope they have found a way to brighten the light of your life. Sometimes a light requires a catalyst to crystalize the color within it." -Me

"I hope you continue to enjoy a period of prosperity, peace, and a pleasant passionate playful point of perception within the place of your soul's position in the maelstrom of magic and majesty we name: reality."

"Death has ever been by my hand and heart. I have watched loved ones pass from this world. I have faced imminent death more than once. I have buried friends. The loss and subsequent pain aren't the parts of my light: "the will", that hold my hands steady during what may very well be the final challenges I face, it is the understanding that I fight for what is in accord with that soul. The blade that bears my name, the strength of my convictions, the significance of the evolved body and soul I possess, the brilliance within the light of my intellect shining in the spirit perceived through more than just my eyes, all facets of whom I am. I've held onto starlight within, and through, the worst and best of humanity." -Me

"Being an evolved human is a lonely position of reality. I am the only one of my kind. A realization I have come to respect, come to understand as truth/fact, and have spent time attempting to create terms of definition and achieve a state of complete peace within acceptance of this." -Me

"I have fought against the devils and demons within and without, beside fanatics of faith though their lectures still possess insight and significance, giving them endless patience and yet maintaining an open mind to their insanity is somewhat of a difficulty, though, I'm sure, they mean well in their diatribes of dark and light. I live alongside the demented and delusional, and those who've claimed to have achieved a mental state that was disillusioned, though, honestly, every sentient singularity that claimed to clarity was farther away from crystal than they thought. Self-delusion and pretentiousness are something of a viral disease in this manifestation of reality in which I reside. It infects the brightest when they obtain a measure of light that surpasses those around them, when they perceive their light as the brightest around, they stop searching for every source of light. That is their failure. They cease their growth. A star cannot sustain such an existence. I think that is why they burn out and explode. Starbursts to supernova at the pronouncement of pride. A brilliant birth to behold, boundless in brilliant beauty, a majesty and magic with no equal, but maybe that is why only I remain. Every party member, partner, every sacred singularity of sentience, by their luminous light: every star, has fallen. Only I remain. Is it because I believe in the facet of understanding that is realism? Humility within endless growth? Ever entering situations with open ears, eyes, and mind, learning whatever there is to learn? Is it because I consume all the knowledge and continuously strive to grow? Evolution is significant to my existence. It is a concept that helps to define what has happened to me. I evolved. I am no longer human. I understand that now. I was, but now I am something more. Those who have borne witness to the truth of my personal evolution know that I do not speak in jest or in falsehoods about such a profound subject. I have evolved. (this is the truth, if you've gotten this far, ask me about it sometime, what you hear will more than surprise you, I assure you, the truth is something more than your perception has perceived)" -Me

"To Doctor Charles Darwin, I would have loved to enjoy a conversation with you...maybe I'll meet you one day, who knows what door deigns in the darkness of death...(I don't believe in the concepts of hell or heaven, god or satan, these, to me, are fantastic constructs of imagination, the bible is a supremely well made work of fiction with a positive moral, ethical, and inspirational message throughout it's passages, is still a work of fiction. I use logic, sensation, and science as a basis for the facts that I hold.)" - Me

(if we were ever allowed a name of our own choosing)

- Larathain Nai - Lo Starlight


-S. M. B. J. (the true author of every piece of art on this page, people have tried to steal my art and claim it their own, I can only wonder why)

"Some journeys are made with no destination or end conceived, but discovered through reaching the horizon." - Me


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Doll-Ladi Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2017
I very much appreciate the watch

Orchids by KmyGraphic
GabrielLoboDX Featured By Owner Nov 28, 2017
Thanks for the watch :)
Only0x Featured By Owner Nov 26, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for the Fave. 
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