They call us indestructible, avoidant of the overt ideal of our mortality, a mortality that we share. They are a hypersensitive people, they can smell the blood coursing through our bulbous veins, they can see the throbbing skin on our chest incasing our straining hearts. They can see the fatigue in our legs as we end our days and enter our cars. These people are intelligent, they know when can be touched, they know we can bleed. Fixate over the pleasant fiction that there is a human being that exists that triumphs all forms of harm, our sentinel to knight us from what may intend to do us ill. These people are weak, these people are desperate, these people need to be saved. Their lives run in impending circles accomplishing the standardized, hour after hour. They rest at night, in their quadruple gated communities, with their forced smiles and perfectly crafted nuclear families. They wake, same breakfast, take their children to school, arrive at wonderful work at the same time, raise their computer chairs to the same height, and arrange their desks in the same manner as yesterday. These people do not think we are indestructible because of its logical significance. These people think we are indestructible because we are skewed, we are abstract, we do not standardize the chaotic and burden functionality with identical pieces to turn the proverbial money machine. We are different, therefore in their untrustworthy minds, indestructible. It’s not so bad being a superhero.


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