Words cannot express the anguish my "soul" experiences. Yet, I still write. Why? Will it serve as some magic cathartic vessel? No. It's just the slight and pathetic hope it will help. I suppose it's a distraction. Passing each dying minute of this body's "existence". Making this temporary stint on Earth seem meaningful. I find this life to be pretty cheap. Here, listen to some wonderful music. Watch the ocean crash onto land. Bake some delicious fucking cookies... Whoops! Sorry! All these things must cease for you since now you must cease. Right. Well, if you believe in an afterlife, then that's just dandy. Hey, do you think there is a 'beforelife'? Fuck. There is now. We choose what we choose to make it seem worth something. To distract from the inevitable. Hobbies, "God", work, sex, shitty writing - whatever. Pain. No pain. Old. Young. We all just go. It doesn't matter if anyone even reads this.
I am an alien.
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