classify text {gangguan, kebencian, porno, penyakit psikiatri atau mental, sifat perkauman, penghinaan agama, selamat untuk bekerja, mencederakan diri sendiri, seksis}, text `Consciousness.I am the attention seeker.  
I am the lone child crying for help.  
I am the boy who cried wolf.  
And I am conscious.  
  
Once upon a time there was a world that was very big. I looked up and the people were taller than me. Sometimes they were nice to me, and other times they were nasty.  
But no matter what happened, the tall people never left.
There was one very kind tall person with a bright red bow, who knelt down so that I could see their eyes.  
  
"One day, you will find out that the world is not made of nice people and nasty people, and you will find out that there are shades of every colour. To you, you see very few, but there is a deep terror known only to tall people like me. You will realize this one day."  
  
Slowly, the tall people started to get smaller.  
Every year, they shrank a little bit, but I had forgotten the words spoken to me.  
  
It was only when I was the tall person, and the person who once warned me was small, did I realize what they had meant. It was when I buried her in the ground, that it started to make sense.  
  
I have been painting a picture. I'm not a storyteller, but the past appear to me as a picture, that I can only describe as a painting. It was a beautiful painting, it shines so beautifully even in the dark with no light to reflect its colours. If you were to look at this art, it would inspire pure euphoria throughout your body.  
It sounds lovely, but there is a sad twist.  

But there is another painting. That sits alone by an open window.
  
This painting, I cannot see. I cannot describe to you what it looks like. I cannot get a brush and a canvas and depict what it is. In darkness it remains dark, and in light it retains its shroud and refuses to reflect or reveal itself.  
But there is one fatal flaw that this painting has had in its efforts to conceal itself from me. I do not know the painter, I do not know its origin, but its palette lay on the floor.  
  
The palette for the beautiful painting is full of reds, and blues, and vibrant yellow.  
Yet I look at the palette for the second painting and it is full of shades of dark green with a murky aqua smudge across it. Half of the paint has dried, as if the palette has been there for a long time without being touched.  
Perhaps the most disturbing thing is that there is a red on this palette, but it is almost brown and crumbly. Somewhere on this dark canvas this red was used. Blood.  
  
Belonging to each of us is a piece of artwork. A room, two canvases, and two palettes. I cannot see whether somebody else can see the second artwork; perhaps to my neighbor it is clear but to my cousin both reflect no light at all.  
  
Delusion is the belief that we can pick up a brush and change what we can or cannot see. The paint on the first canvas slowly is overtaken by the colours of the second, whatever they may be, but there is always one certainty. That paint has dried.  
  
Consciousness is realizing that you've been staring out the window the whole time.  
Every person that ever died stared out that one window; but from the way that the beautiful colours slowly flake off of the first as the colours from the second whimsically drift to the first, it's clear that the only way the second painting will ever be visible is when that window shuts.  
  
I saw a Maiden in White come to take my first painting when the window shut. I saw her pick it up and take it into a hall full of thousands of depictions, one after the other. Their colours all shared the same disgusting pigment, or as far as I could even tell.  
Knives upon throats, bleeding hearts and charred corpses. All lined up perfectly.  
  
I saw the White Maiden take my first painting, which was once the vibrant first but had been overcome by the darkened smudge, but the most fascinating thing happened.  
I didn't even know I was walking, or how I moved, but I did. I moved towards the empty spot where the White Maiden had placed my painting, and it was no longer darkened and invisible to my eyes.  
I approached it, finally in awe of what I would see, after years upon years of turning away and gazing upon its dark reflection of nothingness. Mesmerized by what it would reveal to me.
  
But then, like a strike of thunder. I woke up staring out the window, with both paintings behind me and the door locked. A bright painting to the corner of the room which glistened from the light coming in from the one window in the room I was in, and the other completely diminished and impossible to see. Its disgusting palette the only clue as to what might be there.  
  
So now, as I stare out my window, and onto this computer screen, writing on a subreddit. I sit alone. I sit here with nobody by my side as I describe what lie behind me.  
Maybe you should look behind you too, and tell me what you see. Or maybe you will laugh. Maybe you won't see anything at all. Perhaps a thief came in the night and stole your paintings while you were too busy looking out your window.  
  
What do I see out of my window?  
I see what the beautiful tall person with the bright red bow warned me about.  
  
Sometimes it just get's too hard to resist the urge to shut the blinds and slam the window shut.`
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