The Death of a Mourner

 Everything I do here feels like the last one. That's how I enjoy all of them. That's how the anger is kept on watch. The parties, the trips, the singing, the movie-watching, the cooking, the eating, the cleaning, the lovemaking, and the fucking, I should extend that philosophy to all moments, no exceptions. 

But the more I stay, I feel like staying a little more. I forget everything that assured me to leave; I begin to doubt all the proof so concretely piled up heavy in my head. But the heart... 

That's when he comes to help, stirring the muddy waters of my emotions, exhuming the almost faded, untrusted memories, and replaying the same chords on different octaves. 

I feel lost and blank, in limbo; neither in the cacoon nor outside, but caught up halfway out, on its own sticky walls.

Death is tough. Especially the kind where you are both the dying and the mourner. That feels like the most humanely painful thing for a self. It's a fresh hell for an empath: a volcanic eruption of inspiration, a force that cracks the very dams of creativity.

And so flows the thoughts of an alcohol-soaked, greenly-smoked mind as it sits right in the middle of the ArkStorm, quite literally.