A reading Idiot

I like the books that show signs of violence. Any violence though there is only one kind. Books that has been thrown hard into walls due to uncontrolled emotions. Explosion from a depth. These books now sit idle like distressed but content children in the bookshelves. Showing time of despair, anger ruled out on less than innocent titles. Pages full of life suspended in time. The Idiot read and misused and loved these collection of pages. A quiet landscape at last.

I sympathize with the underdog, weak spirit beaten into submission by dark clouds. Once a free and restless seeker now a mere weak shadow of a former self. How did you get this far into your vibrant turmoil, what brought you so far down the dept of self hate and mistrust? Alone, the echoes returning with a dull whisper, the power of the passing sends less sound forward and around. Wait for nothing, stop for no one given your vision is set on a mountain far across the sea and deep within the old country.

Not a hunger for death, suicide per se a frightening process

Fear of the act of killing life

The urge to disappear triumphs

To live no more as life has steered off course

How to leave everything yet stay afloat above the surface?

Keep floating amongst the debris of human existence

Conceive one’s own as dead with no prospect of no matter

A solution, one that will ponder

Nothing matters, nothing else

Heading into the night

Leaving few traces behind

Looking forward as the dark covers you

Thrust your senses into the void

With open eyes you wake up

Truth and honor is to perish, tonight

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