Porcelain Life

When the solitude feels like a warm blanket over the body so tired from the purpose one shall give to an absurd existence, the fear of death visits like an old friend
It feels sickening to nourish him again
A life of porcelain
Inscribing meaning and sense into a sculpture made out of skin, made out of glass, made out of grains of sand, made out of stigmatized dreams; indoctrinated the art of perverted ontology, made out make one sick and frightened
Thousands of days to build up on dreams of those who have already vanished
This legacy scars ones skin and shatters all the beauty within
What you made was beautiful, but like everything it will be dead in the end
And with closed eyes - distanced from reality and from everything that weighs so heavy and makes the walls closing in - the knowledge and undeniable fact, that we all are going to die, feels like the only thing that is for certain
The mind is infested, yet also chilled by the necessity of how life is going to be
It’s going to be filth and scum and pain and fears and hopes and dreams and love and loss and senseless fight to survive all of this
And when the worms feed on our flesh there will be nothing left