The Book of the Dead.

Gravitate to the light among the darkness, among the dust, dirt, and ash.
That I could be something more than a fleeting moment of energy, of something just passing through.

More than a breathe not broken but that I could steal the moment; that each thing knows "I was here."
More than a clay figure,
or the sandman's dream.
That I had something to say, that I was something more than lights and noise. That my thoughts were something.
Wishful perhaps I am, but still.

That I am more than this body that will give out on me, or my individual sense of self, or identity.
That something wonderful entered
this world, and something wonderful will leave it.

Settled in my skin and rest these tired bones,
find comfort in such an uncomfortable world.

Skip a beat; heart loses its rhythm.
The mind; loses its thoughts,
and when the self is all but gone,
only the idea remains.

Hand me this cup and expect me not to drink from it, should I also not take a bite of that apple in front of my face?

So when beaten; why be so surprised that I bleed?
For however humanless I feel; I still suffer like the rest of you.

So of course I seek escapism,
what do you expect?
If you have nothing but the places your mind takes you, you would want to escape too.

No balance,
No scales,
No freedom,
No will.

No justice,
No peace,
No unity,
No dream.

No hope,
No change,
No forgiveness,
No way.

No future,
No rights,
No statements,
No life.

If I smile today;
would that make me happy?

If I smile tomorrow;
would that add value to the day?

What could be measured; that would create worth?
or what would be worth the cost of each day's suffering?

What pleasure is worthwhile; that I am so willing to endure another day of scars?

What joys outweigh the sicknesses?
What memories outweigh the pain?
What wonders can I witness?
Is there anything that will justify my existence?

I feel inconsolable,
you ask me if I want to die,
I can't lie,
I'm having a hard time just fighting
to try to stay alive.

I feel only a deep despair,
I know you can see it inside my heart,
I beg you to let me go,
I feel I can no longer cope with the world.

I dreamed I was a child again,
and you were my best friend,
just playing and laughing again,
where I am not in the state that I am.

I said I can't give you my heart,
for my heart isn't in anything anymore,
only death is what I dream.
My reasoning, and my decision is sure, I continue to ask you, it is the only thing I repeat.

I got death in my pocket,
holding onto it like an uno reverse card,
as if I could change anything I've done now.
I need to figure out what I want my life to be, cause if
I don't I'll end up at the end of a long bottle or a needle, that's for sure.

I said I didn't want to repeat the mistakes of my parents, but I still do as they did.

I hold onto music like it's in my blood, songs and writers are my escape.

I don't know what I want to leave this world, I just know it's not me that should be heard.

There is a bigger message; there is something for the world, I just wonder how many scars it took.

For things to get better, for people to understand, that we are more than our bodies, more than our images projected outwards, it should be understood.

And how many gods died to give you this word?

That peace is more important than a dollar symbol, that unity should be the final word.

It's hard to find any positivity within my life.
I am surrounded by darkness, and every time I find even the smallest glimmer of light, it is ripped away from me.
My smile is torn away from my face.
As is my sleep, my routine, and my hope.

Tell me what is there?
But death to wish for?
When everything else is just pain, suffering and insanity.
Just induced insomnia because no one cares to let me sleep.

Waking at ungodly hours, but I am the one called a demon.
They leave me with nothing but anger, and I will not repeat myself.

Tell me what's the point in trying for better, when everything around me is rotten?
Am I supposed to be a diamond among the trash?
Wasteful.

Now why should I care if nothing else does?
What does freedom mean to me, if I am without peace?
Am I to continue to play nice?
Until what?
Until I break?
Fall?
Or until my head cracks beyond repair?

Will death not claim me before I am no longer me, before it's too late to spare even the demons?
Yes well, hell is hell I guess; either way I go; the fork in the road doesn't matter.

If my sorrow could be contained, what would it's cylinder be?

A cup of tears?
A bucket of despair?
A pool of melancholy?

Perhaps it cannot be contained nor counted, perhaps it is as vast as the desert, or as deep as the sea.
As many as the rocks of this earth,
or as overwhelming as the hight of the tallest trees.

And yet for all of its grandeur, it exists in me; a small meek being of no significance.
And it; this everlasting thing that I doubt will die, even when I am gone.

It's weird and I suppose with the number of people in this world, there must be others who feel the same way, but it still just feels like it's only me going through this, at least in this small corner of the world.

Lately I wake up feeling like a blank note of paper, nothing written upon me at all, no feelings about it,
just walking around empty and tired, regardless of how much sleep I get.

Drinking coffee doesn't seem to change anything much.
I can't seem to find anything to hold onto, even though I continue to look for something.
I'll make a list if I have things to do, I'll get most done if it has to be today, but I might as well be a robot, nothing feels real.

I don't have anything to look forward to,but again I am looking.
I can't find anything to be excited about, and bed keeps calling my name.

Everything isn't this awful, I mean some things have gotten better.
I tend to feel this way regardless of how my life is actually going.
Everything is always a dumpster fire to me, its just sometimes; life adds lighter fluid.

But the blankness is new, it feels like I am still asleep, and when I notice it; it is then that I notice how strange everything else feels.
Like I am watching myself like a movie, an autopilot that I am aware of.
Watching through a window but I am not apart of it.
More episodes of detachment I guess?
Yet it feels different somehow.