The landscape is dry, it's dusty.
Where the wind kicks up the loose dirt of spilt words. And the air
Is thick with animosity.
One must cough or suffocate.

The atmosphere is frigid.
Where words are bitingly cold.
In places the precipitation of gossip
Soaks the ground.
If one chooses to find their way.
One would be trudging through
Large puddles of hateful and resentful moisture;
Things spew'd from the mouths
Of hearts discontented.

Discontented with themselves and their lot.
Upon which they project onto others;
Often close to them 
A lot of which they chose,
there are certain directions
They also had chosen below conscious awareness.

By the map of choices made 
There they find themselves;
In their misery.
So they are (not) justified to play the part
Of the Victim in this passion play of
Self-created unreality.
And yet without their victim script
Of a life of volitional discontent there would be
No passion play.
No mental illness.

And the world would be in
Universal Peace.

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