simonvargasm
Morality. What a fun word to say. I've said it countless times, yet I've never actually meant anything with it. I despise morality. It sickens me from the bottom of my soul. I find it utterly annoying, I think it does nothing but to restrain your capacities. And I mean morality not as a set of rules you should follow to be 'happy', but morality as the implicit criticism in those rules. Everyone should try to be happy, yet these rules always try to keep you inside a shell; they will never let you do anything -too radical-, they'll always keep you inside that safe range that tantalizes progress and goals. Only by the destruction of that implicit criticism can one be truly happy. Only by the obliteration of rotten traditional morality can one metamorphose reality into the beautiful butterfly it can be.
He thought he'd seen her run past the big oak, and suddenly, supposed she was behind the thick foliage that enclosed the garden. He ran towards it only to find a very high wall, made of dirty, vine covered bricks which stared at him with reproving eyes. He backed up in panic. He'd remembered. His schizophrenia had been worsening for some years now. He could barely remember who he was or who he was chasing anymore except during the little moments of lucidity in which the abominable reality crawled up his neck. When gone, he couldn't even remember that she, who he'd been chasing over the now flower-less garden was long gone. Gone on behalf of the fear; fear of the faceless illness that afflicted her lover. Illness which had taken his laughter, smile and love, and had returned empty bark full of echoing memories which now had no name or face but just the fake continuous loop of the garden chase the evening before he'd been diagnosed as the madman he now portrayed. He ached for lucidity to vanish; he shed a couple of meaningless tears and wiped them just in time to notice her running past the big oak.
The champagne boomed through the room! He jumped and danced and jumped again. He screamed and laughed and screamed again. He drank the champagne, swallowed the pill and blithely died. In his cell, he'd had laughed, screamed and jumped. He'd finally earned his freedom, and with a gulp of champagne he'd celebrated with blissful tears in his eyes. Oh death! Delicious death! Ecstatic death! You come to us like a drink of champagne! We relish on you with rapture and mirth, and finally smile, with shining eyes, as you untie the bowline of our delusive soul and eat it with pleasure, like we drank yours.
The birds flew around it, deafened by the loud buzz coming from the engines. A big zeppelin hovered over the castle, and down, in the middle of the town plaza, the children gathered and waved at it. It flew towards the horizon, being welcomed by the setting sun, who cast enthralling waves of pink and orange to the clouds, giving way to the magical circus of colors whose jugglers and trapezists waved, just as the children did, to the big old zeppelin flying to the sun.
He was driving down the clouds. Damn it was cold! He was running late for work, and he had barely eaten any stars for breakfast. He sped up. Passed a bird on 77th. Kept going. Passed a big big black could on 123rd. He kept going. He then remembered he had forgotten to put on his seat belt. "God and all, but I still forget this thing!" he said as he reached down for the clip. He didn't notice; a big airplane was coming. He crashed directly into it. He died.
"I really feel like I should wash myself tonight. And by that I mean get into the shower. This week's been a bitch so it might as well help rather than make it worse. Hmm. Maybe I should jump. Yes, I guess the window's got a pretty nice view. I bet it looks even better from the outside. Yeah. I'll jump. Hmm. But first, the shower, then I'll kill myself."
She walked through the avenue as if no one was there. She was blind to the staggering amount of people trampling over the asphalt, and could only imagine what the actual noise was. She was trapped in her own bubble of imagination, in which no world was real but hers. She kept on walking until the bubble popped. As it popped, both the avenue and the bubble disappeared leaving nothing behind but her mind wondering through the streets of New York.
"Who's offering $5?" - "The Lady in the back?"
"Anyone else, offers more than $5?"
- "$5!... 3... 2... 1..."
"Sold to the lady in the back!"
"You can come pick up your son next Sunday afternoon, we'll have him ready for you."
The mist was think. Vision was clouded by the dense mass of formless vapor, and not even the front part of the ship could be seen. The captain closed his eyes; prayed to heaven. Nothing happened. He decided it was worthless to keep trying, so he closed his eyes once again, pulled the trigger and killed the mist.
And silk it was. The dress she wore. Flapping with the wind, revolting around her body, it was the silk. She ran down the road, terrified by her early visions. She ran through the snow, afraid of her past, afraid of what might have been if she hadn't wore that silk dress.
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