#sicknessuntodeath

and must be hidden from others.

For as soon as the despairing soul sees the joyful,

it injects it with its nonsense.

And the joyful, wishing to spread itself to its limits,

by being the spirit in its infinite gesture: at its highest potential,

begins to spread itself onto despair,

The words never come out right but I won't let it keep me from writing.

In the darkness I was made // in it I will be unmade // but very few of us will ever be completely in the dark // 

when you turn off all the lights, the stars still shine // as long as you don't run away to a cave and cover your face underground, you'll never be completely in the dark // 

that thought saddens me // I've heard the dark can be beautiful, but I'll never know // I'll never ever know // 

I want to know that warm darkness from which I came // that completely black inkiness that pulses with the warmth of living tissue // enveloping, protecting, embracing // 

I want to know the feelings and sensations I felt before I knew what feeling was, before I was told that "it" was called "feeling" // 

maybe that's what death is, a  slow fade into the warm dark // 

a slow burning/melting/slipping away of memory, of self-consciousness, until you've become the warmth, the dark // 

until the dark reforms again //

Maybe that's death // 

maybe it isn't // 

I guess I'll know one day thirty, twenty, seventy, or fifty years down the road, won't I?