I like to rub the walls down, make everything clean again. Make the walls shine whiter than god. I wanna make them reflect against me, to contrast my black. I wanna consume that cleanliness and make it cold; I want the light to envelope me and make me warm. I want everything else but me to be clean. I'm the only one allowed to be the darkness. I want to smash my face against it and repulse and devour it's shine. I wanna steal it's sparkle. I wanna be the only one allowed. I am a hypocrite.
Death is a funny thing. Not the religious aspects, but just the simple fact itself. If reality is (as I say) based on perception, then do you really die? Are we all just faeries, do we go away when people stop believing, when no-one remembers? I have always had this Hollywood-esque need to die young, blaze of glory, fortune favours the brave yaddayaddayadda. I...just cannot accept the fact of dying an old, withered man; barely even myself anymore, eyes dulled as the brain dies away, asleep in my bed. I wanna die before I'm thirty, I wanna star in a tragedy, I want to make myself immortal. Can you honestly think of James Dean, Marylyn Monroe, John Lennon, or Kurt Cobain as old? No, you can't. They are forever young, and they will always be remembered. So does that mean...that they're still alive, as long as people remember? Does their tragedy reach everyone's ears? I want that! But at the same time, I am scared to die...would I be missing some opportunity? It's all too sad...am I being an idiot? Can you tell me that if I go on, that I'll always be here...no, that's ridiculous. I, as I exist now, will not exist in five years. It'll be me, but a new version. But I will not exist anymore. Will that person be happier? Will he be able to accept the reality of life, not being some whiny little baby, unable to accept the plain and simple truth? Will he be able to accept the deniability of immortality?...
Well, I guess I'm still dreaming.