Conscious and animated and dead
The awareness of presence and being are ever present.
Having the appearance of something alive with body gestures, emotions, and feelings.
Yet deceased in the spirit and the mind.
Feeling more alone in a crowd than being alone.
Wandering aimlessly in the present and troubled by the certainty of death.
The unknown is beckoning with every breath.
And who will moan the conscious and animated and dead?
Self-pity is a waste of time.
Regret is an illusion of what could have been.
Learning from experience is a missed opportunity.
Aware of presence and being and as lifeless as a fleeting thought.
Feel the contours of age as a welcome mat to the grave and a carpet of covering.
Reminiscence about something that produced a smile.
A smile that appeared for an instant before receding into nothingness.
The blameless are shadows of the imagination and the guilty are rampant realities.
The nebulous image appearing in the mirror is only a hallucination.
A hallucination produced by the psychosis of thinking oneself to be alive.
The obviously untrue becomes a paradigm of virtue for the appearance that has no dimensions.
A vapor that masks the violent reality of a state of being coming to an end.
A paradigm of security and wellbeing heavily sprinkled with decimation and obliteration.
The true meaning of existence with its wreckage, ruination, and wastage.
Conscious and animated and dead within the wreckage, ruination, and wastage of the harmonious systematic universe.
Where the Sun is brightly shining and the beautiful blackness of the boundless regions beyond the planet Earth are sparkling with life and light.
So, the end comes with a guarantee.
A guarantee that has self-assurance.
The self-assurance that a monstrous character is firmly housed within.
Firmly housed within the conscious and animated and dead.
The end.
