You always told me that life, like art, should be forever, eternal, immortal. You always said you'd live forever, like your art. I'd always argue that life, and art, is meant to be fleeting. But you never listened. You always said you'd live forever…but you weren't even truly alive…not fully, anyways. You thought nothing could kill you…yet now you're gone. How cruelly ironic.
You always said that there was no need for emotions, that they would simply weigh you down, weaken you, kill you…you were such a hypocrite sometimes. I'd never listen to you…maybe that's why it hurt so much when you left…you never loved me, that I knew of, but…I loved you. You knew that, didn't you? You knew how you made my heart ache, my mind race. But you never cared…the sadist that you are…were. You never cared…or did you? Sometimes, just sometimes, I thought you did. But then you'd say something, or do something that would contradict it. You'd play with me like…I was nothing but another puppet. How cruelly ironic.
You told me so many things…yet I never listened. Why is that? Sometimes I think I was a fool not to listen to you…and then I think…
….I'm the one who's still alive, not you. How terribly, cruelly ironic.