A Certain Kind of Life, After Death

Though I must admit that it brings a certain tinge of pride in myself for those who are in awe of my mediocre works, I wish there was some way that I could show them that the path that I have traveled to where I am now, the experience and the life that I am living in, each of my breaths that always edging closer to its end, I wish I could show them that these things that are essential to me are indeed the dark reflections of those that they hold in awe.

I have always known that it was never going to be easy carrying a passion, especially when doing so would lead one to a life that most would never dare to experience. And yet for some reason, I have chosen to be like this: the stones on my path hurt my feet, the light only reveals shadows and shapes that are the same shadows and shapes that haunt me in the darkness.

Dear friends, I must tell you though you might never understand that what you thought was a gift that I possess is not solely that. I want you to know, and thus I will attempt to explain to you that as much as this is indeed a gift, it has its price.

And throughout the years, it seems to me that the price is a burden that becomes heavier by the moment.

I must tell you, that if my works, mediocre as they are to my own eyes though beautiful to yours, it is only because I, and only, and forever it would always be I who will know the stench, the piles of rotten things, the darkness that had to be there first before the light could ever be born.

Still, I would like you to know how difficult it has been, and perhaps a clearer way of telling you this is not solely through words, but through actions, and fragments of madness and dreams, faint wisps of hope.

There have been many moments when I wished I could be ordinary like most of you are, when I wished that I could be blind, that I could be deaf to these sensations that pull and push and swirl me.

Yes, I do know I could do it. But then, having lived for so long this way, after having paid such high prices would be as if nothing if I just give in to the urge, to the most common instinct of our species, and that is when one is tired, one must lie down and sleep. I could do so, but not yet.

My life project is in full swing, and I realized that at the end of it, I could find a certain kind of peace, a small but certain kind of bliss, a certain kind of life. But only after a certain kind of death.

I would like you to know that though I may not rid my body in this world after the project is done with, I still wish for a certain death.

And that death is that of the life, is that of the soul that made everything about me beautiful, that made everything about me pure.

Perhaps I am just crazy, or just barely enduring the hellfire that burns me from the mere traces and fragments of someone who used to love me.

What I want you to know is this: that after the great life project is done, I wish for the death of the starving, struggling and striving poet whose face and name, and soul you all know as those that belong to me.

Who knows, when the poet in me has finally died, perhaps the man, who always had the heart of a child, could finally be alive.