World
Dear my non-existent alter ego. my lucky non-existent alter ego. my forgiving non-existent alter ego.
As I write down words with my dusty fingers that contains a plethora of half bitten nails.
I have realized that my body will not continue on, its a melting popsicle that I clearly overpaid for.
My intoxicated liver and my sweaty palms will soon come into the algorithm 'god' created.
Overconsumption of alkalized water, and an urge to buy gun is not healthy.
I know this, my mom, the news, and some scientist told me so.
I have always thought about mortality, it a very interesting concept; aside from religion, or gender, or politics, or cultural appropiration.
Is it worth the struggle? living I mean. Everyday I hear prayers and people protesting death as loud as a paper shredder trying to shred a sheet of aluminum foil.
Yet there is not enough miracles to go around.
The world is not a miracle granting machine, and the fat lady is recruiting a few backup singers.
Every single second before my alter-ego shows himself I race him to the closest gun-shop.
And if he got me before then, I'll try again the next day.
Meeting my alter ego is super awkward, its like sitting in a room with two chairs, no door just a ventilation unit and lets out specks of light whenever it rotates clockwise.
It feels like that casual encounter with someone who knows you but yet you can't put a name on their face?
