Rest well, Traveler

[justapretentiouspoet]

Hey.

It doesn’t matter if your reason for waking up is stupid.

I’ve gotta get outta bed ‘cause there’s so many books to read and the next season of my favourite anime might drop.

Finding a reason to wake up is never stupid. What matters is that one day you wake up and don’t need to think about why you should get out of bed.

And until that comes for you, there’s no stupid reason to wake up.

[justapretentiouspoet]

Why am I such a good liar?

I want to be good. I promise. I promise I do.

I’m so sorry I lied to you.

I’m the best thing that happened to you.

I’m so sorry.

I’m so sorry the only good things that happened to you were never real.

Maybe one day I’ll stop lying for you.

Why am I such a good liar.

[justapretentiouspoet]

Candles

Wax, wick and light

Burn them down to ash

It hurts to burn, watching the wick and wax melt

Watching it burn

It’s nothing

There’s nothing left to burn

Why is it still burning?

[justapretentiouspoet]

Azathoth why?

[justapretentiouspoet]

May we ask why is it that hate is what lingers with humans?

The love of another, the joy of a sunrise, the simple pleasure of achievement.

And yet,

Why is that hate; with the volume irelivant, what sticks to us like tar?

The emotion that corrupts, erodes and sends us crumbling into dust.

May we ask why it seems so dark with a torch in our hands?

[justapretentiouspoet]

They say the woods are a danger, that it is a haven for monsters and beasts.

They say terrible things live there.

Things that howl and screech.

The woods are silent, some dare to step inside.

Those who do do not return.

Some say the woods have made them their own.

They say that one night, a child ran into the woods.

They say that howls and screeches followed her trail.

They say that she was lost.

They say that the woods are a haven.

[justapretentiouspoet]

Do we despise the institution, the individual, or both?

[justapretentiouspoet]

How tempting oblivion is; free of thought and senses.

Yes, it is alluring.

It is a peace many desire but never achieve.

But can nothing be defined as peace? Can you ask the void if it welcomes you?

It is a temptation, oh it certainly is.

[justapretentiouspoet]

Cold; is it mine? Or is it borrowed?

It sinks, buried itself and sits.

Behind your eyes, inside your throat, a weight on your hands.

I’m cold, but do I know what is it to be warm?

Perhaps I only know what it is to be cold,

and what it is to freeze.

[justapretentiouspoet]

What of those who hate life, but love people?

Those who despise what this planet has become

Those who adore what humans can do.

What of those few?

[justapretentiouspoet]

If you were to choose between

Chaos or Agony?

No safety or no happiness?

Which would be wiser?

And what would Life be without either?

[justapretentiouspoet]

If a devil is to know my name,

I will be the one to skip into hell.

[justapretentiouspoet]

This mad dance;

tragedy, loss, love and triumph.

This flame brings light and pain.

The winds and the rain, the same.

Let them frolic in this mad dance.

What other tittle befitting?

In this moment of madness,

must we live in fear of death

or live to cultivate life and love?

[justapretentiouspoet]

Wrath.

It burns, it cannot be denied.

Repressed. But not denied.

It is a fools quest.

Wrath denied burns cold.

It coils, tangles and infects.

Into your eyes, your ears and your tounge.

Wrath, enduring.

Fire, consumes.

Ice, seeping.

Both are a slow death.

It is a terrible fate. Would you agree, traveler?

[justapretentiouspoet]

The refiners fire burns hot.

What comes out is pure.

But what is left behind?

[justapretentiouspoet]

Dear Reader, tell me, what makes a story?

A dawn, the dusk, great quests, tragedy?

The face of a hero, cries of the innocent, pleading forgiveness?

Can a shadow be scared of the night?

Tell me, what makes a story?