The goal isnt to avoid death, but to live a life so full of love and passion that when you do die, the energy that pours out of you is like soul food for the universe.

Coming to terms with the unexpected death of a friend is something I unfortunately have a lot of experience with. But maybe i wasnt supposed to get so used to it, because now fate is showing me what it feels like to mourn the living. Ive been blessed with the best of friends with the worst of troubles. Its like watching a faulty light bulb flicker in and out of my life, never staying off. Is this my punishment for becoming numb to the feeling of loss? Or is it the indomitable human spirit gasping for air and refusing to go quietly? These are my trials, lest I allow apathy to consume me. I am a man of persistent love fueled by my own precious fear of death. As long as there is a pulse, I wont stop fighting. I love you and im not leaving.

The tide is coming in.
Off in the distance, I see young swells building, aging, ignorant of whats to come.
Using the ocean floor like a springboard to launch itself into a force to be reckoned with.
All these individual elements, the ocean's collective energy divided among its waves; fractals of something much larger.
In their greatest moment, they come crashing down, seemingly ceasing to exist.
I stand on the shore, a bystander, observing the energy return to the source, ripples being created from the death of waves.
Their relevance lasting as long as the shores remain stained.
And in this moment, I feel better about my own mortality; knowing that my relevance doesn't end when my body dies, that my energy just goes to feed the swell of another wave to come.
And I remain a pillar, unmoved.

The only thing that makes me feel better about missing you is the supernatural intuition telling me that we're soul mates and will cross paths when its cosmically appropriate.

I met this woman that ruined my life.
I say woman and not girl because she isn't naive;
she knows exactly what she doing and the mayhem she causes.
She's enticing in a way that makes you feel bad about yourself.
The kind of beauty that you wouldn't bring home to mom and dad because it would make them embarrassed for having a son that loved something so evil, it could turn the pope himself in to something made entirely of sin.
She turned best friends into mortal enemies.
Her beauty is chaos,and anything that crosses her path turns into such.
She possesses the strength of allure that ruins your ability to enjoy anything else ever again.
This defining characteristic is what makes her evil because she knows it and thrives off of the destruction left in her wake.
I more than hate her,
I hate myself for ever loving her.
She is the anti-thesis of what it means to be pure of heart.
Her name is ****** and I hope she dies.

My external self is merely my emotional vulnerabilities conditioned to be stoic and ridiculous until its formed itself into a tough callous, only bleeding in the most hostile of circumstances.
Outside extreme,
inside serene,
not sure what was lost in between.
If i say to fix something,its because there is something i broke and never fixed and don't wish the same on you.
If i laugh at your shortcomings,
its not because i think it's funny but because vulnerability makes me ******* UNCOMFORTABLE.

I want you to know that when I push you away,
I'm hoping you'll care enough to pull me closer.
If you see me cry,
though I'll never ask you to,
please sit next to me because whatever was able to break me down must have been profound.

There's a calmness inside of me,
a kind of bliss that turns to chaos when i try to express it.
So if I tell you that you're beautiful,
savor it because it means that I felt so strongly about it,
my serenity was able to overpower my insecurity and inhibitions and reach the surface of my lips.
I may seem spastic on the outside but my peace of mind is real, its there, and it's fighting to make itself known.

So much suffering that is diagnosed as personal is the creation and destruction of the world as we know it.
It is the twine that holds our culture together as well as the acid that disintegrates all order and the building blocks that make up our subjective reality.
Every action made against us, every child murdered, woman *****, life ruined, just is.
We are merely comprised of our reactions to the objective ******* that comes crashing through our lives, making everything hyper-personal and self-involved.
If we could just step outside of ourselves we could view things with compassion and understanding.
Countless acts of suffering went onto inspire the most beautiful art, the greatest stories, and the most historic pieces of music.
Our suffering has painted the human experience has we see it today: flawed, personal, though somehow perfect.
If we could take our suffering and view it with the beauty it might inspire, maybe, just maybe, it would be bearable.