You open you eyes... unwillingly. You don't remember who or what you are. Every morning denies your hope that you would die in your sleep. You're broken again, fogy and saturated with the gift of live. Those damn clouds force heavenly light inside your darkened soul, yet you barely had time to take a look at that dirty ceiling... This smell... a sign you didn't drown in your own sweat last night. The colors... The colors try to invade your shadowy mind but the anger in your red eyes refuses to accept them every new dawn. You feel betrayed and full of nothingness. You feel the rage cutting even deeper in your soul every time the sun rises... The feeling of rejuvenation and the fact that you're no longer paralyzed like the time you fell asleep last night make your soul burn, make your soul poisoned with unrelenting violence. Unable to avoid this curse and burden, you awake everyday to have a new tomorrow. You went to sleep in your dreams to wake up in this filthy hell, again...
You feel like exploding in thousands of sharped pieces and then turning to ashes, like a phoenix bird that's hopelessly dying for the last time, leaving this hopeless cause, this unchangeable world, at the wrath of the old forgotten gods. You rise from your tomb-to-be. You begin walking, like a decaying carcass of a lost warrior. You move the grasp of your view outside your window to see the death that envelopes around you: the common smell of human ignorance, the pale faces of the unknown, the similar social decks of people, the time passing in all the automated moves of the ones that pass your eyes by, not knowing you are watching them, the final countdown hidden in every swing of the leafless branches.
How erotic, how pathetic, how romantic, how boring is this world! Never changing, never evolving, forever forced to a life behind masks, full of optimistic fools that think they can enjoy life, without understanding their ultimate goal and direction. They are all going to die, but none will enjoy that moment more than you. You crave for death! All these attempts of false happiness do nothing more than to annoy you to the bone. If you could only have the power of revealing the truth of and to God's creation, you would, but you can't! You lack the virtues this world values the most, because you cannot understand their purpose: policies, politeness, laws, order, renown, hierarchy, capability to lie, capability to accept falsity, capability to live constrained and many other similar senseless social pacts. And so, your rage and anger grow stronger every minute. If you could only extend your damnation dominion to destroy the feeble minded foolishness. If only a fraction of the power of your mind could be transported in physical emotions, the entire world would collapse in a frozen insomniac implosion. The truth of these frostbitten words would condemn this reality to it's only deserved remedy: death. In clusters of ice, rotting frostbite would devour all human eyes, all human ears, all human skin, all human hearts. See no future, hear no future, feel no future. See no beauty, see no masks! Feel the truth! Face your emptiness! It would all make sense, at least more sense than this pathetic, painful, beautiful lie that they call life. Misery! Misdirection! How to live what you cannot sustain through understanding? How to feel what you cannot believe? To live you won't, to die you can't. You are trapped on a line of solitude and isolation, condemned to think what others don't, to feel what others won't. You are not mad, but no one hears your call, your heart, your wounds, your blood. You are not frozen, but you are cold as ice. Oh, never ending sorrow of your soul...
Crisis, again. In the distance, from a foreign corner of your brain, emerges an old friend, in blur... The smoke... The smoke is the essence, the smoke is the path. And so, you smoke, and smoke, and let the smoke engulf you in it's dance... Smoke to live, smoke to die, smoke to remember and smoke to forget. Smoke to leap from this madness. Breathe smoke, eat smoke, be smoke... Be the ghostly smoke of your own scrambled ashes. You're suddenly overwhelmed by your illness and the disease of your own thoughts. You faint...
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