So, I have to say I wasn't entirely surprised by violently waking up from an emotionally dense dream. Yet the subject of which, was a tad off from the usual 'monsters under the bed' spiel we are spoon fed at ages four to six. To keep things bluntly, through the darkened haze of the last undertones for my dream, suicide seemed to be the guest of honor. And not the self-righteous proclamation activism kind. While I will keep disclosed of whom the act pertained to, I feel this deserves a white girl blog post in itself. In a what may be socially unacceptable way, I believe nothing in existence does not contain even a minuscule ounce of beauty. Cast in a very lately, broadened shadow, there is an aspect of nobility in a dignified and sweetly macabre way. But we're all a bunch of sick fucks, so doesn't our youth allow of to admire this fleeting appreciation while we still can? Even though this is still regarded as a controversial topic, but for us angsty vigilantes we set a few fires and watch them burn because controversy in our middle name, and we revel in defiance. But it is time to pay our respects to what an artist would call, the final masterpiece. I mean we work our whole lives up to death, so it has to mean something? And if your last ambition is to create the most breathtaking piece your life will ever amount to, then one should be allowed passionately create and destroy until a beautiful monstrosity of damage. Damage beyond repair, but not beyond the restless eyes; hungrily watching, of this messed up bunch. Yet, what comes to play darker cords is that the pigment of our dreams are induced by what was previously in the wash cycle of our tumbling, tangled and tormented minds.
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