the cost of this light buzz
and seemingly simple infatuation with death
is freedom –
not the freedom that is illusive, but the
one that when violated is a contradiction
to the innermost self.
as a slave to these peripheral
joys and bodily pleasures
I become not soul less, but less soul
each time i fail.
but what is failure?
an arbitrary point on an even arbitrary scale.
we all pay the price of death
for being alive,
and yet we are all prisoners of ecstacy
and the mind less quest for happiness.
there was once a beauty of purpose
and action. And now
it is all a blur.
and what was once filled with void
is now covered by layers of
each with a label, giving off
like farts of our own that we secretly do not despise,
a hollow conviction that
we are not hollow
and yet we are.
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