These finger nails scratch the walls. The walls of this casket. Even though I am not
dead this casket forms around me like an eerie epiphany of my life to come. But I
thought that I was already dead. The materials and people in my life have all
dissolved away like 16 pills of death dropping into a life destroying substance. They
dissolve in the liquid and turn into air that floats to the top and disappears. Just like
my happiness. I watch my life dissolve from a distance of course. Because if I saw it
up close with these damned eyes I would surely cry blood. And that blood would
drip on the invisible graves of my family and friends. All that I fear now is my eyes
and writings. Everything I had dissolved away except for this pen. This cursed pen
that filters all my raging emotions and creativity into one spectrum of a sane thing. I
write on walls to let go of this ever going anger that seems to subside in my mind.
And those walls seem to come alive as my writing develops over it. It?s as if the
anger takes over whatever it touches. My once beautiful wall starts to crumble and
lies in a heap at my feat. I walk over the rubble and spit on it in disgust. How could
it be so week? How could I be so weak to wear this mask and crumble like that wall
covered in art. So I must keep this anger in my body till it builds up and I dissolve.
