The day my friends turned into pigeons

Nothing is as psychotic as words on fire. Nothing is as absurd as a world thought to be eternal. Nothing breaks as pleasurably as a human being.
I never crawled, I never walked, I sometimes ran but all it ever really was me standing still. Always speaking about the chaos in my mind never made me stronger, only made me more descriptive and rather cynical. I took solace in that pleasure of a mad world that can never understand. I am wrong.
I do not want to be understood, I never did. I made myself feel special because pride wasn’t enough for me, I was never a believer of people’s words. They never changed anything.
And so I smash into walls built by my own bare hands, I bang my words upon the surface thinking I’m making a difference, believing I am leading a new era; a renaissance fueled by fumes. And I keep on writing I never stop. I write on walls, halls and future’s doors. I write on people and on paper. I write on my soul and I write on my skin. The only way I am able to breathe in reality and breathe out magic is this.
There is nothing as liberating as that flat line at the end of a full life. There is nothing as terrifying as that last heart beat; the grand finale.
So live my dear, anyway you wish, anyway you see fit. Just carry your own weight and listen to that music. You are always right.

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