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Wednesday, October 13, 2004
This sullied flesh
When you turn twenty-five, if you're a male, that's when you've reached the peak of your peak, your prime, and then you start to plummet down. Start to fall.
I've decided when I'm twenty-five, that's when I'll kill myself. I'll take a gun to my head, or I'll take some drugs to my mouth, and I'll die a fleeting shadow to not be remembered. I'll disappear.
I figure, what's the point of living on after that time. What's the point of watching the lines, the muscles in my face, get worse and worse. The wrinkles. Seeing my hands get arthritis. What is the point?
Someday you'll just be old and gray and dead, like the people you see each day who you think are too orthodox, too old-fashioned to know what's going on. Who you think have a big generation gap between you. Who don't matter anymore.
All good things die. It's the logical pivot of the world. It's the way things go.
One day this sullied flesh will deliquesce from these hollow bones, and I'll be but a shadow of my former self in the ground. And I will have disappeared. Forever.
That's my immortality. Ceasing to live forever, opposed to living forever. In heaven. In some superficial paradise.
To be or not to be is not the question. Because I've got the answer. The answer is not to be.
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