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

compartmentalized nothingness;

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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