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I heard somewhere that all men, in the end, die alone. To others, this seems a horrible sentence. But to me, it seemed romantic, almost. A gift to be cherished.
How fitting that in our final moments we have a solitude unlike the moments we have in life. To reflect over our lives, perhaps in pride, in regret, or in acceptance. What have we done in our lives? What will last beyond our fast fading flesh?
Would you change anything?
I know when my time comes I will embrace this quiet without fear, if I can.
All men die alone.
I've had a growing sense of uneasiness. Recently I realized what exactly this was.
I feel artificial. Not fake, per se.
It's like a slight piece in my mind, constantly doubting the rest of myself, constantly screaming obscenities at the other parts of my soul.
And yet, I sense in some way, that this cancer that should be killed off is still in some ways right.
The rest of me disagrees with it, but does it truly deny it? No. I know that it is wrong, but like any lie there is that seed of truth that ultimately hurts more.
My behavior seems so strange to others. I wonder why.
I understand that perhaps my tendency to go to extremes regardless of the circumstances can occasionally result in some strange patterns.
Unpredictable in many ways.
You see, I exist on the edge of everything. So slight changes send me crashing to either side. Possibly a hard thing to deal with, but not, I think, a bad thing.
But also predictable.
I seem to be nothing more than a bundle of contradictions held together with duct tape.
I wonder... Would I have more in common with my opposite than anyone else?
As a child I felt guilt very deeply, mostly for things that I couldn't and no one would expect me to change. The fact that I had even the bare minimum needed to survive filled me with a sort of hatred towards my own advantages. Others did not have these things; why did I?
It left me angry at myself and everyone around me.
I felt guilty and selfish. Whenever I had money I spent it on myself to help elevate these feelings. Making them worse. Some sort of vicious cycle.
I wonder now if was a better person then.
If I had one wish to be granted, it would be to remembered.
I'm terrified of being forgotten because I know it is inevitable. But still, I scream, I'm here. I exist.
So I ask of you, who read this against all odds otherwise, to remember me. This faceless nameless entity. You do not know me. I do not know you.
But remember that there was a person in this space. Remember that even if you did not know them, I had thoughts and feelings. Let this be your one memory of my entire life.
Let that memory be
What is our meaning? But ignore that, have a huge helping of fat, sugar, and salt.
Is this all there is? But ignore that, live in a blur of flesh and ecstasy .
What is our purpose? But ignore that, stimulate your mind with cheap explosions and bright screens.
Who am I? But ignore that, just press a button and pretend you're someone else.
But one day I'll die. But ignore that, and fill the thoughts up with money.
What are the answers? But ignore that, do you really want answers?
But if you ignore that, you can be happy.
Funny how the little things can mean so much to us.
We don't even realize it in the moment. So often it's a conscious act, a little kindness, but once in a while you don't even think, you just do.
We never see how much it can be to others. A smile and you've brightened a day. Contagious.
Just a word and you've shed a little light.
Just a look and you've given more than you know.
A little effort and the world is good for just a split second.
I wonder what the world would be without these little joys.
I think the only thing I've ever really loved is an idea.
I know I'll never find it. I know it doesn't exist.
It sometimes comes to the point where it hurts, a pain beyond, faint, subtle, ever present. A deafening whisper in my ear.
There are earthly loves. Rare, but present. Could they match this longing for something impossible?...
No, they cannot.
So I wait for something I could not have.
A perfection of some kind. Something I was not meant to attain, for I would only corrupt it.
I wonder if I am really alive without it.
All paths lead to death in the end.
Does it matter.
Does it matter at all if mine is short.
Does it matter at all if it ended right now.
I cannot live forever. No matter how much I want too.
I'm not afraid of death.
There's just so much to do. So much to see. So many things to learn. I cannot possibly fit in any satisfying amount. I want to see the universe.
I'm scared of being forgotten.
I will always want more. It paralyzes me sometimes.
Can I live if I must die?
Faceless, nameless, just little puppets dancing saying
Pretty little strings twisting and tangling. Stiff movements and swinging heads.
Gorgeous little wooden hands control themselves with a little effort. Holding their tiny hands above their heads they command themselves.
Now they're all mixed up and they can't loosen their own nooses surrounding them. Struggling to escape this prison of their own making they lock themselves in tighter and tighter and they can't breathe
harder and harder they try to scream but
it's no use because no one else can see
their prison cell around them.
Now they just worm along like everything's okay.
There is this chill, terrible in its subtlety, not in its ferocity. It slowly cools my extremities, but it is hid in the wonderful and awful numbness creeping up from my fingers.
My skin turns white as the precious blood in my veins surrenders its territory to this frigid air.
It burns my lungs with every breath, stinging my nose and mouth, shocking my nerves with that sudden cold.
Harsh air nipping at my flesh.
Fingers hesitating, clenching, locked. Precious body heat flowing out through naked skin.
Each beat pumping closer and closer.
I should really turn the heat up.
Recently I have befriended someone.
Even more recently I discovered she is filthy stinking rich.
Her parents actually, but that's irrelevant.
You think it would change our friendship, that I would think differently of her. But if you thought that you would be very wrong.
It's a strange and new experience. Have I known any who were blessed with more money than my family had, at least at the time? Well, yes, but this isn't I have a better car than you rich. It's my car is worth more than your house rich.
It's laughable how little it matters to us.
Here's my favourite song:
whahahahahahah DNG chchchchch werierieriwah
dunduncha dundun chadun duncha dun dundundun
SHSHSHSHSH weirewew nwnanwnau niu niu nwnaunwnau
chadade cha dade chadade
wrau wom nineninene nena nena womwewom womwewom wom
dundun cha dundun cha dun dun cha dun dun dun dun
weirewew wrau wom weirewew wrau wom
whioua chch tictic chch tictic chchchch bmbm dng
tic tic tic tic weirewew weirewew weirewew
weirewew chchchch weirewew bnbndndndnwnan wnauniu niunwnaunwnau
w wwww w wwww w wahahahaha
dundundun cha dundundun chchcha nwnanwnau niu niu nwnaunwnau
nineninene nena nena hm huhuhhmhuhumh hmhuhu hmhu
weirewum wahahahaha shhhhhhhhhh
Oh... You wanted lyrics?
He stands there looking at me.
Amazing, isn't it. That this furry little creature is alive. That it's a living, breathing, intelligent being.
Can you look at this... thing, and wrap your head around its existence?
Love. Love wells up in my heart for this tiny thing.
I wonder... I wonder how much it knows. What it thinks of.
Just a little thing, just a tiny thing. I could crush it with the smallest effort. And yet, it just sits in my lap, curled up, completely happy, heart pumping, lungs sucking air.
Such a small creature. So tiny.
People come. People leave.
Especially me. As I move I leave everything behind and start, again, and again.
Walk along your own little path and ignore the scenery.
Sometimes other paths come close to intersecting, but they inevitable veer off. I could follow, change my path. It wouldn't take any amount of effort on my part.
But I don't.
Why? Am I afraid (of what)?
This is just my natural state. It's what I've always done, without fail.
Why don't others live this way, if I can, if I find it so easy, so natural.
Maybe it's just my road.
Cold frozen nights in a fortress of open sky and never ending snow. Harsh wind flows through this land, biting everything in it's path, howling through the little patches of trees.
The dark sky reflects on the white purity, blue everywhere, evenly stained ground.Stars dance in the sky and the clear moon lights the perfectly smooth land.
The sun peeks out, but it's warmth is nothing. It just sparkles with pretty little lights, blinding and deadly. Now you see the little gusts that spread the lights, and what was a howl is now just a quiet moan.
Any doubt, punishment, any failures, anything negative I have ever faced, ultimately, it's from within. It's my fatal flaw, it's what destroys me.
For all my intelligence and kindness, for all my love and good nature, for all my maturity and passion, for all my purity and honour...
There is still a sense of wrong.
How, with all my successes, all my triumphs, all my superior skills, could I still live like this.
There is still that little doubt that festers and grows, blooming into self hatred.
I am better than this, I know.
Those two things together kill me.
A little line of trees borders on the end, on the breaking fence.
But it's a forest to this child, those thin trees lending beauty to his mind. Water fills the leafy floor, such a picturesque image to grace his memory. He ignores the ugly colours in the depths and the draining tubes; to him, they are the deep woods, a little sanctuary to the nature that is slowly being driven out.
In the summer he chases animals.
In the fall he dances with leaves.
In the winter he watches it all die.
In the spring he watches it be reborn.
Some people find the idea of a larger being, of an Almighty or something else, comforting.
I don't like the idea that something is perfect, but that that perfection is unattainable by anything else.
I don't like the idea of something that knows everything about me, even the things I have never and will never share.
I don't want there to be something that is better at everything than me.
I don't like the idea of something controlling everything, because it would make the cruel details in the world cut all the deeper.
How could that comfort you?
The world is not bad. And it is certainly not getting worse.
Music is not worse, culture is not going downhill, kids these days are not evil, and life is better than ever.
Do we have setbacks? Of course.
But things are better than ever.
Freedoms? More than ever. Modern comforts? More than ever.
In two hundred years we've advanced more than the rest of our history.
Every society has had their problems. Some have succeeded, others failed. Some thrived through it, some were crushed under it. This age will have challenges like all the others.
Some things never change.
Hope and fear are the same.
They both lead to just two outcomes, with opposites roads.
They will crush you under their anticipation. Hope under denial, fear under acceptance.
They reside in your heart, waiting for that single moment when their life is decides. Finally, they leave that hole in your heart where they grew. Then your heart recognizes it, feels that absence, and panics. It pumps faster, trying desperately to keep from collapsing.
Few things can compel life like hope and fear; without them, what do you have?
So many terrible things have been done in their name.
Occasionally there is an idea that burns itself into the core of my mind. So vivid and perfect against the background of mediocre everyday life, it refuses to die until I have expressed its essence thoroughly enough. Details will come and pass, but this general picture, although shifting, will retain it's horrible truth and emotional depth.
An entire world that plays out in my mind until it's end. They are dreams, but not mine. These other person's dreams burrowing into my head, it hurts.
Every little word aches in my bones.
Just little obsessions that give comfort for their time.
'My body has cursed me;
Weak and foul, filthy and forever tragic.
Speak now, you howl, guilty, without magic.'
"This is what you were made for
This is the limit you cannot surpass"
'Though twisted I truly want more
Only through this hope I last'
"What you want it arbitrary;
Given that you're content, it's greed"
'Living but spent, this is what I need.'
"I know you hope there is a chance
But don't fear what will come to pass
You've no life, nor heaven's glance"
'But it's only through this hope I last'
"You must accept your circumstance."
'Only in hope is there life.'
I just want to scream, I just want to break this silence, I just want to prove I'm alive, I just want to feel alive.
I crave that rage and passion that destroys everything. I need this little hell of hate in my heart just to hope.
Just to survive.
A dreadful reason for being that pushes me on nonetheless.
Vicious little thoughts in my head. Pure corruption, little pockets of resistance that eat at me, but provide my will.
Bubbles forming and popping, conscience breaking.
You take my strength and leave me dead, but I am weak without you.
Thirteen were borne unto this life.
Twelve opened their small blind eyes.
Eleven see the bright burning sun.
Ten will watch yellow turn to orange and finally set.
Nine see far off worlds and stars glow softly.
Eight will watch those small lights fade.
Seven see the incoming grey clouds.
Six will feel the fresh falling drops of rain.
Five see fields of growing green survive.
Four will feel fields of life slowly dying.
Three will mourn their passing companions.
Two will fear what they know is their future.
One will die alone.
None see the bright burning sun.
There is a story I really want to write. Fantasy. Here's a simple outline of the intro.
A hunter travels with his wife and son. They are attacked a monster who kills the man and rapes his wife before the son kills it.
A boy is born. The mother loves him, but the older son hates him. He constantly pushes him. When he and his friends gang up on his brother they push too far and bring out his curse. He kills one boy and runs off.
The older son takes up his father's profession and chases after him.
Spring, oh the spring,
What loveliness you bring
Those cool little showers,
The golden sun that towers
Over fields of budding flowers
The beauty that is ours.
Winter, such a time for woe
Time for reflection as in the snow
All those flakes falling down
To litter already gleaming ground
Oh yes, those same fields with snow abound
A little secret we have found
The desperation that it does expound
Desolation so profound.
Seasons, seasons, in the air
As one comes in the other tears
Seasons, season, on the ground
Spinning cycles round and round
Birth and death and then again
Birth and death and then again
Birth and death and then again
Birth and death and....
Autumn, a season of timely death
The world will breathe its final breath
Until the time we live again
We will find life; we will regain
The pieces of Eden that do remain
Inside this grave where we've lain
Summer in my line of sight
White lights, white lights, that did incite
Fires burning in our eyes
A castle to reign up so high
It's own domain upon the sky
But to look hard we dare not try.
Seasons, season, in the air
As one comes in the other tears
Season, season, on the ground
Once again and round and round
Birth and death and then again
Birth and death and then again
Birth and death and...
I wrote part of a story. Called "The Last Attempt".
It's about a mage. Early in the story he gives up humanity for power
He follows a journal of another on a trip to find some sort of treasure (it's never quite specified what it is). The journal is by one who has been dead for a long time.
As he follows it he starts to lose focus on himself. He, in part, becomes part of the other, and in part, just loses bits of sanity.
At the end he discovers the treasure and it restores him, but he must leave.
Life is too short.
There is no time for me, for my wants, for my needs, for my dreams.
Time just flows on, forever the same, indifferent to my pleas of mercy towards its cruel pace.
I want everything there is. I want to see the world and beyond. I want to know all that can possibly be known by man.
I dream of greatness, of power and pain and pleasure for my life.
But there is no slowing, there is no pause, not just for me, nor for any other poor bloke who needs just a minute for himself.
So... I haven't been great at this.
I have cheated a bit...
More like a lot...
But I was determined to finish. And in the end, just in time, I did. So I'll count that as a win, if shallow. It was still challenging for me.
Maybe next time I'll be ready for more
Problem is, I want this to be art, not some ramble about my day. Good for others perhaps, but I feel art must be open and broad, otherwise it... falls flat. Mine does, at least.
I want it to be something and everything, not anything in particular.
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