A million young
barely feel young anymore but I am still young at heart, and I barely have my heart
I’m listening to myself sing a cover of a song of the same title: “A Million Young” by American Analog Set. It’s one of the songs I can’t get out of my head. The raw recording has some breath effects I do that make it sound produced. It’s cool. I do it twice. It starts off with a battle cry for the youth of sorts: AYIYIYIYI.
So listening to this: these were my thoughts.
What if demonology had a specific species it loves to feast upon?
What if that species was me?
It’s the youth that die young, and I’m speaking from experience.
It’s the beautiful that are damned.
What if it’s so twisted that you never know you’re beautiful?
24k antique gold plated Marianna Harutunian cross with champagne colored crystals and iridescent crystals on 17 inch hypoallergenic chain.
If you’re used to liars saying what they want, you can be as twisted as cult logic.
It’s you.
t’s your (b)eaten psyche, hanging you like a chain.
What if it’s so twisted all you’ve ever known beneath the surface was hate.
And now the surface no longer hides. You’re no longer young.
Disfigurement follows you like bad hygiene.
Emptiness in interactions scar you like bad poetry.
Someone else’s reputation…that the filth the grime and muck of it all can’t infect you.
Until you realize it’s cancer.
It’s internalized grief suppressed as anxiety, a lifetime of tears you couldn’t cry.
Skins you could never shed. Everything out of wack.
Facing your mortality and placing them in the hands of a system that designed you to destroy you; break you to immortalize you and turn your soul into a glory hole.
Closer to the picture. Closer to being fucked like an animal. Never close to consent.
Maybe you get the picture, or maybe you don’t. A million times eaten, and no longer young.
After this…I no longer wonder. It’s all of us.
Because when they eat the young it’s because they’re saying no one has a chance and no one will be spared.
Mask on.
To face the duality, a delicate mask is a worn cliche. Interestingly enough: this made to order Marianna Harutunian can be worn as a headband as well.
Crusade.
It’s the hate machine and other things like the dark and shadow men and women’s boogalou.
Until you become one of the others.
Until you’re one of them.
Until your soul is dead.
Until the rot goes after a bullet to the head.
Until you’re no longer young.
The cycle goes on and there you are in love with being eaten now that you know there is no such thing as love.
Until you find a religion in the chain of fools that catches your eye like this beauty.
Or so you tell yourself.
You’re no longer young.
You continue a life that is sacrifice.
Until the soul rot in your head kills you and you’re dead.
Okay. And scene. Haha, whatever is that hipster brain rot?
I was imagining these chains stacked and styled with other pieces or maybe even each other if they weren’t too large.
Anyway, comment if you’d like to hear a snippet of the cover!