How could I live in this accumulated filth, thought Ursula, her retarded intellect enticed, pushed her into conformity. She despised conformity, it allowed little or no promptness, no adjudication of humane impulse, this imploded constriction repelled her, but, instead of escaping, she submitted to this infernal force, she had to know, she had to win over this.
Ursula existed in moments, lived in capsules of time and space, and the capsules rhythmically disposed to travel, to travel....into lands of submission, into lands, where promises are made, prostrates acknowledged, conscience deplored, spontaneity rejected. She cried with despair that tore her senses asunder, she could not feel anymore, she did not want to, she assumed indifference, provoked attention from the mechanized system. She tried to jump out of the capsule, to save a wistful creature, to save herself. But, where was the plane? She sensed anger, but her senses affronted her, they strung out in the chain of volition, detached from her body. The absence of plain terrified them, stole their object, and the intangible remains implored hopelessly for the body to adorn them, to grant them their place, an object, without which, they were but strings of worlds encapsulated in them, but have no idea how they could identify them, Ursula was their identity. But, Ursula was stuck inside this highly evolved capsule, which centuries of optimism followed by centuries of agnosticism made it reliant for the system, the capsules were the inflow of energy, derived, or rather forcibly sucked out from all the creatures housing them.
Ursula felt the gravity retreating, she felt the sounds and light retreating, she lost her stand , she was no more an object of these omniscient faculties pleasure, she did not exist for them, for her senses robbed her of presence, she was absent now. She can't escape this, where would she dive into, for outside this capsule nothing existed, everything was out there waiting for her to grandly spoil her self.
But, everything existed outside her, the world that she watched through her eyes, the world of sounds, world of smells, everything existed outside her, she did not need her senses, she relinquished them, but she knew, deep inside her, it was they that renounced her person, her abilities, they left her, she felt incomplete now, she demanded for attraction, she needed attention, dreadful submissive attention.
But, how could she fight the system, how could she exist only for her self, her insatiable desire to seek attention was but the system's subversive act, why would she need attention, and from whom, she would cease to exist, yes...she would vanish like the puff of a smoke.
How does it feel to be inconsequential? thought Ursula, but she hated the thought, it bored her, the end of a consequence that turns around to loop back into itself like a whirlpool, that which, never allows any external propriety to engage it, that which is destructive was a strangeness, an absurdity, in itself, and to be inconsequential for that end was faultless.
She chose to die, to win over the system, she did not choose to encourage remonstrance or the likelihood of one, but instead, she died as a compulsive and obsessive reformer. She envisioned the moments of her death, the blankness did not haunt her or deter her, it beguiled Ursula to explore, to achieve the status of metaphysical conquest, to become death, to be there when it happens, to exist not exclusively, but to be an inclusion, to become death herself. Ursula relished the idea of the juxtaposition of life and death, how acutely close they were, how her life's trajectory sent ripples of objectivity towards death, wherefrom, she expected the waves to hit the bottom, hit the extremes, but return back to the source. So she could measure the qualities of superimposed waves, so she could finally decipher death, but it never happened, the waves never came back, she assumed it was because of her lack of preparedness to draw border, delineate the border, to conspicuously make an announcement. How death mocked her throughout her life, all her life, she could not conquer it, she was pathetically probing fro answers in the realm of life, but now, she would crossover, she would finally live in death, she would capture those moments, that sharp gasp of final breath, that final millionth of a second, that final memory, she would hold it close, she would carry that memory into death.
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