And I lay me down to sleep, ending the waking, ending the constant stream of hate and hollowing out my body. I look at the sky, my eyes barely conceiving the world in which I am forced to slave away in. Forced to live in, forced to die in, forced to be in. It's a fate I can see clearly, though my eyes are dull and fading. It's the one truth in a mesh of lies and maimed spirits.
Spirits. I don't really have much of it, I never did. I could see the path I had to walk, see the mangled bodies I had to step over. I could hear the silence, smell the death and live the lie. I could live a dead life, a cold life, a cruel life. I could live it, unlike anyone else. And I could die it.
Death, like so many things often taken for granted in the past became a rare luxury, something only the true humans could afford. Long, empty lives full of carnage for a sweet abyss of empty nothing. I always wanted to be nothing, I wanted my life to be worth the wind, not caught in the unforgiving snare of life. I wanted it, I really did.
Wanting something was rare for me, it was something the blind and deaf to reality were always asking for. And I was ten feet under everyone else, buried alive in a mass grave of humble bodies. And alive, though I was, I had never lived.
All around me were people made of plastic, people with their own superficial dreams. They wanted friends, they wanted to be powerful, they wanted to destroy. But… did any of that really even matter? In the end, you're left empty inside, a skeleton with no flesh and no mind to justify the way it lived.
It doesn't matter what we do when we're alive, because we're not really alive. We never live, we never see, we never hear. Dust in the wind. We're the living dead of the world, us humans. We're abominations, truly despicable and unfairly developed above other species. It's a lie, it's all a lie.
You say we're human and we are. But are we really? We can be so many things, and we all end up as nothing in the end, but are we really what we so proudly call ourselves?
We can't be all the same, they say, yet we are. Once we are ash who is going to care? Once we're gone there is no reason for anyone to care. We're alone in this world, we're always alone and we die only to go up to heaven.
When I die, I want to be left alone. I want to be able to rot in peace, I want to be left alone for my soul to erode like the despicable thing that it is. I want to be nothing, I don't want to go to Hell and I most certainly don't want to go to heaven. I just want them to let me be, because I'm nothing. I'm insignifigant, aren't we all?
I felt the darkness as it tried to pull me down, and I let it, I let it claim me. It promised I wouldn't be able to go to Heaven. That was one of the biggest reliefs of my time. It drove me to be alone, it drove me to despise the world, it let me see.
Truly see for once. I could picture the eroding deathmasks so easily, I didn't trip as I could see in the dark. I learned to love the dark more than anything, especially life itself. I suppose I sold my soul to the devil, yes you could certainly say that. But maybe… I instead gave my soul to an angel, as I was content knowing what I knew.
Death is so much better than Heaven.
I'll never see my parents again, their bodies claimed by licking flames and the land below us. They were decent humans, but they were humans with little insight only looking for earthly things. They were nothing special, why would they go to Heaven with all the blood on their hands?
The only thing keeping me out of Hell is the contract I made with evil. I knew the price of evil, and really, it was more of a reward. Who would want to rest when you could be out and about, your screams intermingling with others? So sue me, I'm a masochist.
