"Hello Oblivion" or "As the Sun Sets"
To explain everything that has happened from then-to-now would be long winded futility.
That is, if I could even describe it.
That is, if I could even stand hearing myself talk about it.
A torrent of emotions in a finger-snap. A drop of blood into an ocean. Solid for a second, then lost- there for a moment, then past. Feelings merely lingering in the back of your mind- Shifting and scampering away from any attempt at lobotomy.
I smile; as if I enjoy being roasted over a candle flame.
I burn, laughing at it all along the way. On fire. Candle Light Immolation.
There is irony here, there has to be. It has to be funny- otherwise it's just too damn depressing.
Do you hear that, you? Hand me an ice-pick so I can chip up my brain. Wish I could chip it out all nice and neat, and put it in the box with the rest of your stuff.
I can't, though; It's not set up that way. Half of me loves the misery. An excuse to be angry. An excuse to be alive, to rage against the coming of the day. The other half can't stand it- and that half needs to leave. It isn't productive- it's just weak. Soft. Accepting. The Mystic needs to make way for the Magi.
Hand me that clove. Hand me that bottle. Watch my middle finger as it extends, and I spit in your face. That's solid. That's correct. You can feel it as it drips down your chin, and you can thank me for making you so clean.
That is, if I could even describe it.
That is, if I could even stand hearing myself talk about it.
A torrent of emotions in a finger-snap. A drop of blood into an ocean. Solid for a second, then lost- there for a moment, then past. Feelings merely lingering in the back of your mind- Shifting and scampering away from any attempt at lobotomy.
I smile; as if I enjoy being roasted over a candle flame.
I burn, laughing at it all along the way. On fire. Candle Light Immolation.
There is irony here, there has to be. It has to be funny- otherwise it's just too damn depressing.
Do you hear that, you? Hand me an ice-pick so I can chip up my brain. Wish I could chip it out all nice and neat, and put it in the box with the rest of your stuff.
I can't, though; It's not set up that way. Half of me loves the misery. An excuse to be angry. An excuse to be alive, to rage against the coming of the day. The other half can't stand it- and that half needs to leave. It isn't productive- it's just weak. Soft. Accepting. The Mystic needs to make way for the Magi.
Hand me that clove. Hand me that bottle. Watch my middle finger as it extends, and I spit in your face. That's solid. That's correct. You can feel it as it drips down your chin, and you can thank me for making you so clean.