And then he saw something that caught his attention. Beyond the empty emotion he had begun to feel weather he was around those he cared about or alone in a locked up shaded room, hiding from the painful monotony of sunlight, he came to realize this. He had stopped writing for himself. He had given every single thing he had to those who'se lives he wished to be a part of, and though their returns of compassion and exhiliarting offers of life and fulfilment had been meant to show appreciation, they had done the opposite. He had become so content, so comfortable in his life that he had lost his muse, his ability to sit down and describe the way a cobweb hung from every rainbow.

He remembered now. Every cloud that had a silver lining was just another reminder of how every mother had a child who was crying. How the starvation is not only in our stomachs but constantly in our souls and how though we may be pock marked with legions and moles on our faces, we can still find each other beautiful from time to time. Every orange hue and blue-eyed tint and fake pine smell and refreshing mint cannot begin to cover up the stench of our very souls from time to time. We all pass strangers who just want a dime. And weather they chose to spend that to feed their families or quench their thirsts, who are we to judge their urges and compulsions?

Even the best of us give in to our primal nature.

Twelve year old whores congregate behind the city police station not only because it is warm, but it has the most generous clientelle. And I can tell, through the emptyness these days that I see in mens eyes that every one of us has been made to compromise, we are dying. But we are free. I've come and gone and moved along. I've lived in so many goddamned cities that I've come to realize. Home is where you can lay your head down and know you're going to wake up the next day. We don't all get that luxury. Be it knowing that we're going to wake up or even being able to lay our bodies to rest in the first place, being content to keep this pace and keep up with Mr. and Mrs. Jones working ourselves to our bones and finally realizing even that doesn't make us happy.

I don't care what colour your skin is, or what god you chose to not believe in seems to be. I dislike all of your jobs because I know myself that myself at my job is not the real me. We've all got these faces and illusions that we show to the world to please one person or another and every single one of us does it.

We're all acting. We're lying to even ourselves.
The concept of god was lost a long time ago. Now I'm beginning to think that I don't even believe in truth anymore.
Its just as subjective.
And a lot less reliable.

Boogschutter

Stevig

5' 10 (1.78 m)

Hazelnootkleurig

Blank

Single

Nee

Nee

Ogen

Piercings, maar alleen in mijn oren, Zichtbare tatoeage

Iets Anders

Nee

MBO

Voltijd

Kunst / Muziek / Literatuur

Insurance Adjusteer

Tussen de €30.000 en €45.000

Met Huisgeno(o)ten

Loopt het soms uit de hand

Ja - Als ik uitga

Ja - Als ik uitga