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aztec artworks in 5 layers

#Codex Borgia #codexborgia #aztec #native american #native america #love

Why kill yourself now? It’s getting pretty late. You’ll regret it in the morning for sure — may as well wait. And later, if you like, you can regret waiting.

Would you really trade this dream for the night? I’m not saying the impulse isn’t understandable — who doesn’t want to die sometimes? It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking over it, then trying not to imagine how interesting the fall would feel. Some jump to know the feeling; some jump and know already.

The moment my brother took cyanide I was downstairs getting high. Waking up and running upstairs, realizing it wasn’t a dream — that hit harder than any chemical I tried. Months after, air tasted like metal; every breath stuck to the walls. Suffocation felt warmly familiar like dumbly saying bye to childhood. And while the emptiness faded, eventually, I’m still afraid — afraid of waking up again right after somebody jumps. But it’s better to fall asleep while there’s still something left to dream — better than killing yourself I mean.

Death is one kind of freedom; life contains many. Freedom in prison equals love between slaves — let’s not curse life. Staying here means choosing all the people I love. There’s not much to say at the edge of the cliff. You look down and then you look into someone’s eyes, or else you lose it.

Choosing each other lets us dream together, moment to moment. You already know what it feels like to fall. The dream being shared makes the nightmare worth it.

Why kill yourself? It’s getting late. You’ll regret it in the morning for sure. May as well wait. And meanwhile, if you like, you can regret waiting. Do you really want to trade this dream to the night? You won’t find your way back. I’m not saying the impulse isn’t understandable — who doesn’t want to die sometimes? Still, some of us find out the hard way. The night my brother took cyanide I was downstairs getting high. Imagine my regret, waking up and realizing it wasn’t a dream. That hit harder than any chemical; I thought it’d never end. The air was heavy the next morning, cold clinging to my skin. Suffocating felt nostalgic, like a farewell to empathy. That ended, eventually, but I’m still afraid — afraid of falling asleep and waking up in another story like that. But it’s better to go to sleep remembering there’s more left to dream — better than killing yourself I mean. Death is only one freedom; life has many kinds. We didn’t choose how it begins but may get to choose the end. There are people here I will always want to be close with. Staying means choosing them. When I don’t choose to be me, the world loses who I could’ve been — the lazier I feel, the more essential it is to try. But when I choose myself, I get to choose the next dream. And that makes the nightmares worth it.