Sometimes I wonder if I’ll disappear if I feel too much. See too much. Hear too much. I feel my neurons strangling me sometimes. They tug on my adenoids and whip my senses and I am charcoal, cocaine and everything in between.

I wonder if I am too light. If the wind can carry me home. I wonder where home is. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see it. Once. Twice. For a lifetime. I wonder why I think. Do I think too much? Do I drown too much when I am thinking and I am high endlessly and wordlessly on my own words and worlds and I am drowning and I want somebody to help. Not because I care to live. Maybe I do. Just for someone to see me. To notice me.

When I am gone. When I am ashes and the scent of putrid corpses, when I am strangling and my worlds are toppling like my bones that roll over the lush green field. I am dreaming. Dreaming of butterflies, waterfalls, rainbows and I am happy. I think I am happy. I am golden when I am happy. Like an angel. A fallen one, someone told me. But today, I am not sure if that someone was me. If all my someones are always me. A figment of my mind. A shatter of my mirror. A ripple of my blood. I want to think. But again whose reality is even real? Everybody likes to believe their reality is real. Whose is?

Pain, it soars through the heart, like a cold blade dipped in burning hot gold, drenched in abstract emotions beyond sapien understanding. It feels like an endless void at the end of time. The thirsty feeling, the vile hunger to drown in pain. It is like levitating but also tumbling down the passage of time. It is choosing between death and beyond life. It choosing between poison and elixir. We tend to drink the poison, and deteriorate our machinery in hopes that it will magically transform into an elixir. But we never face the undying fact that we are addicted, that there is something neurologically wrong in being addicted to this feeling of death and self-immolation.

Age, complex but yet so simple, a number that divides the knowledgeable and the foolish. But there is something almost amusing about being foolish. You inevitably feel more, die more, suffer more but also live more. There is this predefined code in living with discipline, it fulfills your desires. But there is something fragrant about living that exceeds every treasure the world has to offer.

I would very much like to form sentences. For someone to read my sentences. I would get on my knees, strip bare, and make harrowing noises for someone to read me. Understand my words. But again, would I? Body is commodity. Maybe it's not. Maybe I am too privileged when I write that. How would I know?

About absolutely anything other than the fact that I am miserable, but I don't think I am sure of that either, because I am a baby, giggling, foolish baby ready to die. I read my words and I become what I read. I melt into something toyable, ready made- made with care and trickery and I think I secretly love it.

Living is loving the pain, embracing the grotesque, sowing flowers in the brown, hugging the cobalt expanse of sky but also wanting to destroy it with rage and thunder. It is to foam, to awe, to love and then meet death while loving. It is to feel gray, not black not white, but a rich vibrant shade of grey. The grey twisting in your gut, annihilating your senses and drugging your mind. Living is to hurt again and again till the hurt becomes something beautiful. Something like a soft lilac light on your bluest days.

Anguish quenches sufferance. Man quenches this cycle of life and death because of its fantastical ability to feel and live.