You are sitting at a table, crying. Tears slowly drip onto the pages that are lying below you, blank, empty. Just like your life. Just like you. The pen hovering inches from the pages. Hovering. Hovering. Then it falls next to the page, lying there, useless. Just like you. You take the tear soaked page and throw it into the fire, burning it up until the ash is all that remains. Gone. Just like you wish you could be. Gone.
You are torn. Torn between who you are, and who you want to be. You are torn between who you where and who you are becoming. You are torn between the lies that you want to believe and the truth that you deny. You are torn between knowing what is right, yet doing what is wrong. And you are torn between choosing what your life will be, or whether you will give up. Torn but the last question is answerable. Will you exist? Continue? The answer is… no. No you won’t because you gave up. Finally you pick up the pen and write one word.
Goodbye.
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I suppose, to move on, is to grow. Surely this sort of past, would make one a better person, this accumulation of life and reality in which indeed, exist. To be soft, yet, a sabre, would be the best type of growth. In my own opinion. I’m here..
Finally, we were liberated. Both you, and I. From these chains, reflection upon from the other. These, god, damned, angels, were they real. We must travel from these, focal. Does, focal, play the game, too. No-matter which way, and how gradually.. these monuments which lasted these lasts bits of inspirations.. Guru, oh, to goro..
goro, c’mon goro. Gojo.
the caterpie, and the venonat, really I weren’t neither one of them. a horsea, would definitely be, as well, as them. the pilgrimage, in someway, a cryptic, indeed, but in fact, what.
Sleeping-powder, but still, would you get closer. At this… fantastic, thing. The very, Muk’s, hydro-pump. Was it faster-than, their super-sonic. Special-power, had to be, very high. The monk, the sage, … and what was, sacrilege.
Nice-try! Even inside of the whirlpool!
Aquatic, they’ve proven to be futile. Fish of men, and of women, inside of a pond. Would be less than, than what is. Or should be, a civilization, of, unity, from the reality. The only way to get, the Golduck, was in… from our only lost, from the skies above. The Charizard, yet, once, fell down. And to rise, like the Sun.
There’s more words, right? I don’t really know.
This made me think of something I thought of the other day and wanted to speak on. Those who prepare and contemplate suicide for many many years and how they prepare for it. How they wake up and know that that day is the one. I don’t remember exactly what I thought, but finally they’ve had it. The see the time has come. They light the candles and they lay down to die. It is as they wanted. The moment of empowerment when they take the final step, not out of rash momentum but of a valid and scrupulous reckoning… that is the moment… the years wishing and hoping and finally, they are ready.