Hierophantasm by Feign Thing

Life is a terrid thing and to defend itself from that terrid oblivion, humankind has filled this world with its delusions. These stories have been our salvation. Art, ideology, the very conception of creation itself, these are tools to surviving the social conscience, the tools of change. Though this salvation is not the whole story, these tools, these human things have been poisoned, and a certain few of them have ceased, totally in their mechanism.

Aside from the knowns of materialism, past capitalistic pains and wants, a thing, this “thing” is not an object but an Id. It is a human “mechanism” crafted through conscious and kind. Once known, this human thing replicates, populating like a parasite in our minds. It reproduces within the mind undetected, evolving and erupting from our mouths…changing the world around us.

This human thing is (or was) of neutral consequence. Hope and love, violence and vitriol, and all that remains thereafter, are human things.
Honest things. Love bends our wills and our choices towards collective creation, mutual benefaction. Whereas violence shifts our ideals, sewing thoughts of freedom and control rampantly in our minds.

With time endless that corruption evolved in things. Spoiled, free of genealogical difference, the thing began to produce itself solely. Clones of clones, ideological inbreeding. This thing seeks only to reproduce the conditions of its own inception, this, being the one precondition to doom. A feign thing, power begetting power, money worth less than its debt, the simulacrum, the great machine. A feign thing has seeped into all that humankind has ever touched, and it burns my skin to bear it.

Oh dear creature, what have they done to you?

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