(no subject)
I dont really know what this is. It's just dribble I guess. You could just pretty much say that it's Ville's death narrated...by death itself, if that makes sense.
Your mind is strained and you do not feel anymore. Your veins have iced over and your organs and other innards have been flooded with snow. Each second that passes by is irrelevant and does not phase you, because you are frozen. You are immortal in this last final second of what you like to think of as true bliss and tranquility. Perpetual sounds break through the barrier of your fortressed existence, but do you really hear them? They are calling to you. They are trying to wake you, but you do not wish to be shaken or saved. Your bones have become brittle, and so frail. Should you even make the slightest movement, they will crumble, and you will surely become less the speck of human dust that you parade around as. Do not tempt the saviors. Saviors are for people that matter; people that are matter. And you? You are nothing. You are rendered meaningless, and you will not change. Suicide? You only wish you could be released so easily. Regardless, you are dead. And you cannot kill what is already dead. But you take your last look of the world that has wronged you so many times before in the past and see what could have resurrected you, but it only kills you faster. A hand feels as though it has clasped itself around your throat and is grinding it's nails at the flesh and having no reservations about trickling blood on the sharp fingernails. You do not feel the pain, however. You have known nothing but pain your entire existence, so why should this be different? You utter your final breath which is nothing more than the lowest grunt and you close your eyes and perpetual sleep extends its hand to yours, offering to pull you away. You comply willingly, and solitude is finally yours.
Your mind is strained and you do not feel anymore. Your veins have iced over and your organs and other innards have been flooded with snow. Each second that passes by is irrelevant and does not phase you, because you are frozen. You are immortal in this last final second of what you like to think of as true bliss and tranquility. Perpetual sounds break through the barrier of your fortressed existence, but do you really hear them? They are calling to you. They are trying to wake you, but you do not wish to be shaken or saved. Your bones have become brittle, and so frail. Should you even make the slightest movement, they will crumble, and you will surely become less the speck of human dust that you parade around as. Do not tempt the saviors. Saviors are for people that matter; people that are matter. And you? You are nothing. You are rendered meaningless, and you will not change. Suicide? You only wish you could be released so easily. Regardless, you are dead. And you cannot kill what is already dead. But you take your last look of the world that has wronged you so many times before in the past and see what could have resurrected you, but it only kills you faster. A hand feels as though it has clasped itself around your throat and is grinding it's nails at the flesh and having no reservations about trickling blood on the sharp fingernails. You do not feel the pain, however. You have known nothing but pain your entire existence, so why should this be different? You utter your final breath which is nothing more than the lowest grunt and you close your eyes and perpetual sleep extends its hand to yours, offering to pull you away. You comply willingly, and solitude is finally yours.