Don’t Worry, In My Love For Social Decay I’ll Be Sure To Wish For Peace Too: Short Story3 min read

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Am I obsessed with my own death? Do I love destruction? Do I talk for peace, and love while in reality I would rather celebrate my own depressive existence, the love of my own bodily decay overtime, the adoration with the darkness and the attraction to my own demise? Why do I like to speak about love for everyone, while I really just love the depressive hopelessness I adorn myself with? When did it become cool to be a devil? Do demons love, or do demons hate what I hate? Is hate love, and if so then what is love really, and do I know much about it?

Am I confused with who I am? Do I actually hate love, but love hate? Am I sure about what I actually want or do I just to pretend to know, and if so how does anyone ever know? What am I doing here, and why do I do it? I pretend to know it all, but how does anyone even know any of it?

Everyone agrees, that the death of life is cooler than the life of life, that the dark inside us all is just a part of us. I can’t wear enough black clothing and skulls, I love it, but if I love a skull do I then hate a new born baby with a full head of hair? I mean, what else is more evocative of what life is? In fact, bright colors make me cringe, and fantasy of a happily ever life makes me sick. People talk about their happily ever after life goals, or hereafter, I don’t believe it. It’s too positive. Things so positive can’t be real, definitely not for sure, It must be just a clever tale for the herd. The reality is that we all live, only for ourselves, there’s no point in pretending, they tell lies, I don’t believe their lies, I rather take the truth of hating love, and loving hate. That’s all I need, isn’t that’s what’s real?

Wait, I love hate? Hate is pure, hate is real, love is a lie, happiness is a lie. Happiness is a lie? “Oh my gosh.” I dropped my cigarette in the water. My reflection looks sad at what it’s looking at. I don’t blame it, what am I doing anyway. I mean, if I want to be happy and I want peace, why do I think a story of happiness and peace is so much of a fairy-tale and never to be true, do I really embrace the end of humanity so much? I’m against an explanation of love and justice, and truth but I love? What do I love, I mean in actuality if I hate love enough to despise it and tattoo each of our own deaths on my body?

What the heck is wrong with me? What the heck is wrong with my friends? What’s wrong with all of us? Is what we really want, what we actually want or do we just lie and pretend to want it while clothing our entire beings with the opposite? We don’t want peace, we want death and if not why would it be so provocative to us? What am I thinking.

I want peace, really? But then why is destruction, and horror, economic downpour, and societal ruin so much more attractive to me? I don’t know, but I can’t be bothered with stories of how this all works out in the end, I hate the kind.

 

P: Aaron Mello

Wolfe Spires

All about writing those interesting stories. If you like creative and different fiction here is your source to it!

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