Requiem for a Blog
He dreamed very often and lived very little. He had so many reasons to live found on the edge of his death. He was an emotional puching bag, and made himself one. He talked about himself a lot.
He was a sickly boy, and never grew to be a man. To make sure that illness would not kill him, he would make just enough time to recover; it was a binge and purge. He would stand on the edge of brillance, and make sure never to attain success. He strived for perfection and mused on beauty, but could only espouse them in terms of ignorance and despair.
He walked around with an open mind and his eyes wide shut. He saw all around him as some extension of himself, and couldn't help hold them accountable for his failures. His salvation would have to come through his own suffering.
He was constantly aware of his flawed humanity, but would not be a machine; it was that which he lived.
Sometimes he scared himself, but only he could be his undoing.
(i could've gone on forever writing this. he had no subtly, and hence no easy way to end it)
He was a sickly boy, and never grew to be a man. To make sure that illness would not kill him, he would make just enough time to recover; it was a binge and purge. He would stand on the edge of brillance, and make sure never to attain success. He strived for perfection and mused on beauty, but could only espouse them in terms of ignorance and despair.
He walked around with an open mind and his eyes wide shut. He saw all around him as some extension of himself, and couldn't help hold them accountable for his failures. His salvation would have to come through his own suffering.
He was constantly aware of his flawed humanity, but would not be a machine; it was that which he lived.
Sometimes he scared himself, but only he could be his undoing.
(i could've gone on forever writing this. he had no subtly, and hence no easy way to end it)