(no subject)
Once upon a time there was a little boy. His name? Unknown. We shall dub him freddy. Freddy sauntered through his whole life, wondering, "Why is it that i can't understand everything?" It wasn't until he saw an orchid flower that this question softened his perception of life. This flower, so delicate, so glorious, so autocratically amazing, nothing seemed to matter to it other than being itself...beautiful. The way the stem flung from the soil, and the pedals ornately swimming about their life source, it all seemed so important and yet utterly absolute. Later that evening, while sleeping soundly with the comfort of his sheets, Freddy dreamed of his own death. Being horribly stretched and pulled by a series of shackles, pullies and gears. Torn apart, ripped to pieces, and then beautiful nymphs came and grabbed his limbs and flung them about the pitch black universe. He arose the next morning...he walked into his bathroom and he stared at himself in the mirror. He studied his face; he started noticing things about himself he had never seen before. He only knew a fraction of his own design. He wondered, just as Tears for Fears had, "Why is it that the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had?" While going to school later that morning, Unknown-Unseen Freddy was killed. It really raises the question...
what kind of dreams will we have when we're dead?
Love.
what kind of dreams will we have when we're dead?
Love.