I'm alive yet dying - knowing this will soon end. It's like I’m momentarily tied to a rope, yet enduring a fall. I can't see the ground, and there's no one around to inform me what's there. The only people who would know are now dead.
If ghosts exist, I don't want to be one. If this fall is true, then let me hit the ground of this dream with all that I am. I do not need a push or a saviour to hold my hand. I will go wide-eyed, observing everything I possibly can. It's my fall after all, not yours. I do not need your gods; save your words. I will not define my life to a religious doctrine, or any text for that matter; subjecting myself to coding which programs truths. I woke up here, infused, constructed, birthed from the very remnants of this place. And once I fall, forget about whoever you thought myself to be, for I was never here - that was always a play, a charade, a character that never carried any real substance. My identity here is a joke, and taking myself seriously as if 'I' exist not only evokes tremendous suffering, but it misleads me from realising I am as much a part of you as you are of me. Forgetting this causes such unnecessary violence and hate which, if I am to make anything of this fall, I want it to involve love.