“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.” Edvard Munch
If you lie awake, drenched in the tears of your past, present and future, you’ll find yourself being pulled towards the downward spiral, that is life. Most people don’t see it. Each of them have a different reverie. But most yearn to litter the face of the earth with pygmy adaptations of themselves, with some other equally damned individual. And litter is all they’ll do. Contribute more garbage, more filthy human profiles who are so blessed and will never be aware that all they’ve been doing was advance down, until the furthest moment of their existence. At their last exhalation it’ll become transparent and more genuine than any significant moment of their terribly inconsequential lives- the earthbound spiral. They’ll glimpse through their dim eyes and find that the only path is down. They’ll wish to warn their better half, their other and all their pygmies, even the ill-favoured one. Regrettably, for them though, they’re unable to air a hum while choking on a concoction of stale vapour and dry mud. And me? I’d much rather convulse in the wickedness of this feverish pessimism than gnaw at their rosy worlds of promised perfection and utmost ignorance.
“Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.” Socrates
*Apologies to those offended by my profane language.*