Entry 12
Saturday, May 22, 2004

Birth, a curse on all humans, an order from a higher decree. God gave us life to witness life be sucked away, to watch souls close to our hearts slowly wither and fade. Yet he doesn't permit us to end our sorrows with them, but to live on with a heavy heart. He teaches us, time heals all wounds, but how much time? He borne us not on a bed of roses, but in nettle bushes. He borne us to suffer. He want us not, to gather happiness. But to collect tears, tears so heavy, it sinks to the cove of Gaia. He bid us not to see smiles. But to experience jabs in the heart. Can dos't still say now, boldly, birth's a blessing from heaven?

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Love, thee curse or blessing? Me think both. At times bring joy, others a sorrowful air. Worse still, pain of a thousand knives penetrating heart. How wish I, to put all wounds on script, yet thy pain not borne to be written. Oh curse the dreaded Neptune, for bringing such roar into my life. Love's but a rose, beauty flawed by thorns. A tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, a flawed gem. Yet the hurt arouses strength. Sirens soothe my sea. ..

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Betrayal, the ultimate truth. A spirit denied of its existence, for we're shaken to believe its presence. We faith in loyalty that is fake. A mask we dare not unmask. Deception does not beseech us to be decepted, it is us who banish thy from our minds. What for? For we believe and think we are gods, that we won't mistrust, that we won't be decepted, that we won't be betrayed but we are wrong. But the truth always turns around and snaps at us. It is only that we faith in betrayal.

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Death, a blessing in disguise. An aspirin to sorrow, a relive to pain. We fear thee, petrified. But why? Why when it is "Hey!" to freedom? We leave nothing but hurt. And bring nothing but our soulds. Where find thee a deal so worthy? Think of it not as an end, but a new beginning, a beginning in paradise. Contradict me, yet death still carries sorrows, fot it stains our loved like some contagious disease, like an untamed flame. Can dos't stll conclude, death, the end of the cliff, or another door. ..

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Mark me.

Life's but the leftover of Midsummer's Night Dream. A mirage of beauty, shattered pieces of fantasy. The trust we put in it, like the trust besset of a beggar in its last dollar. Burns like the Jove's flame, a spark that eventually consumes us. Yet it shows nothing but lies, like a mirror reflecting reflection. Perfection kept in the abyss of hell. A jestler; it tricks us, whispers in our ears, then leaves. Leaving us nothing but a wrenched mind. ..

Leaving us with nothing but confusion and deceit.