Murder is the most romantic way to die.
Prelude
----------------
I always thought murder would be the most romantic way to die. I considered it- pathetic, I know, but it happens when one can't stop thinking and has but nothing else to do. Sometimes- and I feel ashamed at my own thoughts- I felt as though it would be good to die. To end all the pain and misery.
It would be wrong. It's a selfish act, and the thoughts that only failures and disappointments and the irrational and unstable entertain. How is death meant to cease the suffering? It is the scapegoat, the deluded thought that the end of conscious life would bring peace, would bring solace. How quaint. Hopes breed disappointment, and the disappointment festers, understanding that hell is the cesspit of dreams shattered and bleeding, of chaotic confusion running rampant and the everlasting contradiction between emotions. To wish to die, and to perform the act of suicide. Is the most repulsive of acts, the lowest form of cowardice and weakness. It's so utterly pathetic, that if it was not so painful, it would be humorous. Suicide, and thoughts of such are truly thoughts to be scorned, it is the essence of dishonor and the epitome of foolhardy.
Yet there is turmoil, a turmoil that complicates things.
It shouldn't matter though, just brush off the dust and grime, and smile, and that's all that should matter. But some cannot do that. I wonder if I can do that. Some cannot unleash their terrors, their frustrations. Their nightmares. And it eats them alive. Coherent thoughts are inconsequential, and almost unachievable with the mental torture. How it feels to love something with every fiber of your being and detest it with every inch of your dark, twisted soul. The strange oxymorons and ironies of life never cease to wound. I believe I should do that, to pick up the fractured shards of my mentality, and piece myself back together. Sometimes, it's strange how people come to be like that, how they wonder and try to find some semblance of sanity, but the manic flow of thoughts gets overwhelming. I need respite, but I cannot have that. So I will have the next best thing. Sleep. Sleep and I will dream. And I can see the beauty in the world, the beauty that has fallen on eyes blinded by confusion and chaos.
I will sleep, and I will live again. The new day will come, I will sleep, and I will live again.
... And I always thought murder would be the most romantic way to die. And it still think it is.
okay, this is yet another fraction of a story picked of from someone else (he he he, who happens not to be on ff. but a good friend of mine) oh yeah, i dont own Yami no Matsuei or anything like that, i only own the monsters under my bed and the boogie man in my closet. so, until i get up to doing something else, i'll be otherwise dead, or if someone has a nice review.
oh yeah, by the way, guess who it is!