A scissor cuts. A knife severs. I wonder how many people still believe hell exists. At least the Aligherty version with the fancy brimstone and fire. Adopting that version wasas probably one of the worst things the church can do. A mind that lacks the ability to interpret imagination is deliciously dangerous.
These days I find myself at odds against myself. I trudge about town doing deeds of an altruistic nature. I volunteer at the local reading center. Make a few laugh so they can forget a while that society calls them feel stupid. I gave away my money to organizations that make people happy. All the fancy clothes I used to have stacked as mountains are undoubtedly clothing the poor and the hip. Yet, as devoid of ego that I am now, I find it increasingly difficult to justify why I am still alive. At which I used to believe was a blessing. Living is a game I’ve grown weary of. I don’t feel cheated, nor do I feel as though much enjoyment is derived from it. I’ve done what I came here to do and now there’s nothing left. What’s there to die for and try for? Change? Political change? Don’t make me laugh. That only works when a nation isn’t lazy, and politics isn’t a tango within the media. For a family? I got beliefs, sister. All children are my children. My parents are yours. So what is success in life? I no longer fear anything, aside from ennui. Just like my black cloaked friend.
For love? Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for love. But the love one has for another person has always been the root of my woes, which had long since been eradicated.
For tomorrow, perhaps? That’s always been our problem. Putting everything off for tomorrow when today isn’t over. I’m not dumb enough to believe in hell, but I believe in this world’s gathering pace in it’s manifestation. Black clouds, and hurricanes, and a very fat and pissed off mama – the underworld feels like a safer place. At least there, nobody carries guns or axes. If this is tartarus, I’ve found the way out. If this life is a game, I’ve won enough to cash out.
A scissor cuts, but a knife severs. They say depressed people contemplate self-applied death, but I’m not depressed. I’m just as bored as death. I’ve already seen everything, what else have you got to show me. Quickly, my pale horse and I have places not to be.
But if I do kill myself, I run the terrible risk of having to come back here. Maybe things will be different then. But as the way things have progressed people just talk and talk and talk without ever having said anything. I’m a nominal hero I suppose.