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Tuesday, June 04, 2013


I aspirated on my own life and died. Trying to take it in to survive for that is the order of society and the need of those around me. But I perhaps have no ability to consume it without choking and perpetually being on the verge of death. So I gave in and breathed.

The posture that one should maintain when trying to encourage others that you will get better, is like putting up a Christmas tree in your flat and decorating it. Not only are decorations of no functional meaning, the tree is plastic, and worst of all, Christmas ain't even about the damn tree. It is all a farce.

People will have their own opinions as to whether I should or should not die. None of these matter when I am not able to feel these opinions anymore. I never did care. I try to care about those for the shouldn't camp. But right now, I don't really. I just want to minimise the pain of the memory of my death for these people and hence will die in the least gruesome way that I can. A show of consideration.

On my way home this evening I told myself I will write more poems. Songs rather than snorts of my thoughts and feelings. Poetry is just a better way to present words. I now have not a single word of poetry that wishes to swish through me; hence, this is no poem.

Let's try other things than all that has been penned here. I've taken my medication, consumed flaxseed oil and soy protein and two bites of chocolate. I'm banking on the two fluanxol tablets I took to make me elevate from this brink. To resuscitate me from aspiration pneumonia. It may work yet, if so, I'll be back, and maybe by then a song will arise.