Choppers. (woosh, woosh, woosh)
We got 'em, and I'm feeling a bit chopped up today.
You shove me, skin and bones and everything in between, into your chopping machine and set it to puree. You let me marinate in my own self-loathing, self-doubt, self-destruction.
Self-incarnation.
or...not self-incarnation.
Reincarnation says it better, I think.
You reincarnate me by pouring me into your cute little mold and setting me into the icebox.
You open the door and look at me every once in a while to see if I've solidified. Or maybe you see past me, toss me around a bit until you find something else you desire. Something just beyond me. Something store-bought and easy. Something that wasn't so much hard work.
I think I'd rather be poured down the drain than into your molds. I'd rather swim through the sludge and the darkness than to be trapped here until you decide it's time for a tasty snack. I'd like to change my own shape as I move along, not to satisfy anyone else, but to adapt to my path.
I'd rather endure the harsh and putrid stench of so many hidden passages, seeking escape at the other end, the freedom of spilling out into a pool of all the other light seekers, finding a calm and level world where the slime and the scum evaporate into a fantastic nothingness, and I can purify into myself once again.
Self-satisfaction, self-empowerment, self-incarnation.
