Rant to rant.

I don't expect anyone to understand this.

Such an intriguing nostalgia, unfettered déjà vu. What a wondrous thing to be on the receiving end of sirens. I have seen more then one set of eyes lit by the maelstrom of intrinsic beauty, locked beneath the fleeting emotional kaleidoscope of throttling hormones, these women could have been the death of me.

There is a chance that what I am experiencing is temporal lobe epilepsy, a persistent and perpetuating cyclic resolution of fate, within the brain, but that is only a guise.

The sirens of old lured entire ships of men to their jagged rock doom with nothing but a song. The sirens of new have a plethora of tools to illicit your destruction. They test your mettle with unapologetic candor, they are masters of will while you are left to decide should I or shouldn't I? Regardless of your position, you can never win, they exist on the outside of logic and reason when they can foreseen your next season. They use their physical beauty like the butt end of a shotgun; to knock you out or to steady their aim.

There is not a move in this life or the next that you can make that will separate your from their secondhand preordained fate. From what I can see they enjoy but ultimately do not wish to be what they are. Your only chance is to remove your self from body, mind and soul and realize in-action is and can be the greatest action for and toward them. They begged to be released, all they need is for one hypothetical sailor to hear and enjoy their song for what it is not to self-stimulate to the point of destruction. They watch the strongest men, the strongest of our kind grovel at their feet, lash out for a need to repeat the failure that crushed them inside out. Their victims can only hope to be in the end an empty shell.

I have seen first hand the drunken stupor the meek are reduced to, A life cursed to live without what they have convinced themselves there is no reason to live without, what is rightfully theirs by the self-inflicted price they repeatedly chose to pay, they think that they should and can now have what is not theirs... the lives of their metaphysical captors.

These women are raptors, strategic hunters, if you take up a sword, they will win. The only thing that can be done is to grow to absorb each and every writhing bludgeoning blow and know that one day, all shall become clear, these are the weeders of our metaphysical soldiers, they are generals of a phantom army, one that if all goes according to plan, they need not command.