Writers Die Younger

Sipping a known tea in a familiarising land, he sits observing strangers. There’s a lack in him - just as there is in every human being. A lack of will power. There’s a sadness unable to continue further beyond skies and strangers.

The world at his feet, he creates something new - something almost strange, but so deep from himself, that it’s all known. Something so unknowingly beautiful, he thinks it’s ugly. He casts it away in the most beautiful ideas he’s had - he lets it stay, develop beauty from other things that exist from himself. Then again, paradise is only an environment and the snake slithers through.

He digs deep into his knowledge - created, discovered and learned and he finds nothing but emptiness. As if everything he has ever known, is not his. He leaps up in joy and in hope. He falls nevertheless - that’s the way things are meant to be. He cries at his own faults and dusts away every dry tear - deserted.

Melancholy preserved in pyramids and sands without an oasis. His heart trembles as another man sips away the last of his tea and thoughts. Consumed he becomes a brand and not himself - he’s of the past - as will be the new man and the newer man still. Dust settles everything - blood, money and people.

Ideas strike through ideas and reinvention is nothing but the new man, he’s become this new man. He’s still sipping his tea, but it is not him that sips the tea. The only remaining entity is the tea and the death. Self-destruction begins, and that’s how you reinvent.

He begs and begs, for a penny to tear himself away from another idea. He sits hoping, that there would be someone for his thoughts - someone as beautiful as his filthy world, corrupted by himself and his own beliefs. There are those still that pay respect and money for him, but a beggar dies on the street he was born.

Just in madness and flames beauty is recreated. Birth is passion, and death is the calm that can never be achieved alive. The tea is over and so is this narcissistic piece of self-indulgence. Perhaps now he’ll get his calm, no more passionate creating or begging. Only the calm and nothingness.