Celebrating the raptures of life in the chambers of your death.

more often than not, life sickens you. the type that would churn hideously in the deepest pit of your stomach and imprint your tongue with the taste of taunting decay. it would savour your bones and breathe in the shatters of your remains. it would invigorate what was left in the yin to your yang and would celebrate the raptures of life in the chambers of your death.

it would take, slow and agonizing that you could feel every drop of you being taken away, till the emptiness that comes became your second skin. it would lurk, secretive and subtle as it makes home in the dusty corners you had forgotten about, till It mends with your dreams. you’d beg for death. or rather — you’d find yourself begging for it because that could possibly be the only mercy you can ever afford to have. yet all you could do is stare.
stare as it simply smirks at you in delight as it devours what was once yours till there is nothing left but your conscience. (“because what’s the point of pain if you don’t feel it, isn’t that right, sweet little human?”).

stare as it feasts on your traumas and fears as if it’s a five star buffet and not something that had caused you hurt for as long as you could remember. (“does it hurt, sweet little human? does it?”’).

stare as it glows in the cherished memories of familiar laughters and even more familiar faces. (“here, sweet little human, remembering isn’t scary. but forgetting does.’’).
and when you could finally feel the embrace of the supposedly liberating afterlife, you’d realize that not even the sweet taste of death could release you from the bitterness of those that reeked of humanity and life. then you could only laugh and laugh and laugh because god, how naive could you be? how naive could you be to believe that the afterlife could be a safe haven from the living, when it is the home to all the ghosts of everything that reeks of life?