Like ants, we are.

Marching to the song of doom.

Tiny, unpredictable beings on borrowed terrains.

Whose fate is in the hands of those who decides to notice it.

We march in order.

We march as if we are in control.

We march for whatever purpose our nature dictates.

But in reality, we march for invisible rules.  An invisible line that we must adhere, else we become lost.  Alone.  Different.

Yes, freedom has its price.  Creativity has its sacrifices.

Risking would mean a fate worst than what others will face.  An end worst than death itself.

But we are dead long ago.  We are mindless cowards.

And if to live would mean to face death itself.  What road shall be less tormenting.

What would be more satisfying.

Then I say, die, along with our insecurities.  Murder our false sense of freedom.

Create havoc among our inner core.  Destroy the world that we have built upon what our histories and the people around us dictates until all that is left is a barren wasteland.

Loneliness.  Solitude.  Nothingness.

And I’ll proudly say that this nothingness is mine and mine alone.

My work.

My doing.

Squashed me after but I will forever bathe in the joy of what I have created.  Of what I have become.

For there are no invisible lines.  No false hopes.  No grandeur.  No rewards.

Just a new path spawning from my defiance.

A new song at last that which my heart would love to sing.

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Writer, Wanderer, Child of God


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