SelfPub: untitled

The fact is that life really miserable. And once you happen something really big... Everything will change. The future the world will become empty. Emptiness will crawl from all cracks, to climb on his shoulders, to squeeze, to live in you every second. And this cannot be undone. Nothing. Never. Even if one finds himself - the great event that changes someone else's life. You understand that it is out of despair. You know it, you desperately pretend to be the daily Bunny, but life from now until the end remains miserable.

You look up at the sky. You already feel skull bird. She's aching bones, her feathers burning in the acid of the soul, raucous muddy out vapor breathing. You also want to fly. You wanted to fly yesterday, I want today and will want tomorrow. Day after day, day after day, until a little fluffy bunnies-days are not gnawing black hole in your anemic chest. Until they dragged them in their sweet some carrots fierce ruthlessness of life. You look at the sky, stroking their leverets and modificeres alive. Only the sky remains with you, in you, around you, only sky, only sky... But the sky is perhaps the most elegant poison.

In fact, the more beautiful and unique our life is what we make it.

What I really like about this life is its internal structure. You buy a pack of cigarettes, open, smoke, and each puff is your final and irrevocable decision. Drunk slide on the wall in the muddy slush trampled puddles is a selection made. All the things that meaningful steps in that fabulous way that we in the childhood sang "beautiful far". It was not cruel, it was defenseless. It did not support, and demanded to become a support to him. However, not all have learned to be responsible at least for ourselves, too tempting to find a third party to blame, which is always at hand, always.

Because the worst thing is not to lose. The worst is when the brain is numb with boredom and fat, panting, begins to produce in the world of half-witted nonsense. Brain want of space, the brain needs significant events to analyse themselves and develop. And so, to escape, he replaces the stifling reality active model domysly. People come up with more interesting and significant. People come up with other people, giving them fictitious character and episodes fate. People make up their own secluded world on your taste. Single and disposable.

I'm not waiting for answers. I don't ask questions. I'm already hooked on the shoulders of the parachute for emergency landing in the coming hell. I don't care. I'm moving to an absolute minus. So I sit closer to the thermometer time to register its lowest temperature.

The wall is "In contact" has become a sort of embryo of a new kind of life. Several times I asked myself why I write, then shrugged and scored to all the silly questions. Yes, simply because the Internet has become another life or on a sixth sense: hearing, taste, network. Epistolary genre of the 21st century: write words, no they will not understand and will not hear you, but someone will find themselves happily lick.

No one noticed the fact that any, even the most schizoid creativity finds its true audience? It says only about how we are all similar and the imaginary as our individual uniqueness.

Think about those who write the phrase: "In my death I ask nobody to blame". Don't they feel just stupid and unnecessary officialdom of these words? Do they seriously expect that close relatives, easily recognizable by reading a text, will shrug their shoulders and immediately agreed: "Oh, well, if so, time favorite bomber said, we don't feel guilty, let's remember and go home"? Ridiculous. Stupid. And scary because it is the phrase to write over and over again, repeating again and again. One and the same. Ugly corny and irrevocably creepy. But still this phrase is an integral part of the subcortex all its glacial plane. And every time treacherous twitches of the hand when the glance rests on the bottomless bestvite point in the night, when no strength even to swallow the pain when vimesy shoulders into a concrete wall, turning from the human to the signal sign "stop" to a compressed madness and despair spring... this damn phrase Ticker internal chaos flows through the inside of your own eyelids.

This is literature, baby. Everything was. All have repeated in a circle hundreds of times. So, the next step will be the attempt to retrieve a new experience from the skin of an old life to a complete collapse of the inner man. The stairs are so attractive that it is impossible not to go. Stairs down, if you look through the eyes of society, but in the end you can see the black sky in intricate colorful stained galaxies. You're going to space walk, slapping his heels on the asphalt. New life, new death, new pain, new ecstasy. Each time stronger and stronger, until they begin to reduce the person until the arms are to scatter poisonous powder. And you're laughing, whistling the tune of "what a wonderful world, look", and look further and further, shamelessly imposing his vision. It would be more prudent to stop, it would be prudent to wrap yourself in a dropper rest to full recovery but every deafening thrown in the back "stop, you're killing yourself!" you invariably respond with a smile chapped lips, "baby, calm down, that's right."

Literature is a struggle with oneself for the sake of finding a man that has man to be. Or even more - the creation of man, emotional and intellectual reconstruction of the soul.

Baby, you're not like everyone else. I say this confidently and honestly. I would say more, you can never be like everyone else. Even if very much want. Not worth whining snotty cuff: "Oh, the vulgar society is trying to break me and to assimilate others." Just remember once and for all - you. not so. all. And instead of depressing, passive scribble on slowly killing the inner isolation, starvation quest for identity and further down the list, open your eyes. Can substitute hand - collect most of those cockroaches that everyone has their own. You will see that we are all made from the same dough and the same fillings, but each one is involved in such individual proportions as the cake of humanity is fragmented into billions of different tastes and consistencies. Billions, you know? These billions and everything. And to be like everybody else - means to cover each of them. It means to become a God.

You begin to realize that light magic tomorrow hope - ghastly, deceitful tale that took you half your life before you believed her and was waiting for something. So vystrugat mind vestroni feelings. Rasmalai skeleton white, take hammer, hit from the heart, to upgrade to first blood - you'd make a great axe. Hole them the right to live. The time of hope has passed, it is time stavshego teeth of humility.

A time of hope - a young time, it inevitably passes. After him, the road breaks into the abyss, not the end of the last act of that curve, no, it continues. Starts training itself, when you take the old geometric figure, the corners of which are sealed passport data - name, age, product number, trade code and start an effort of will to adapt it to the realities that will never be better that such and such will remain.