The art of not dying before the end

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·@wales·
0.000 HBD
The art of not dying before the end
I was thinking of my Catholic upbringing and all the stuff I had to survive going through it; and the priest, and the pulpit, and what heaven and hell were. One day I became twelve years old and ran away from all of it and said to my mother that I'd never go back, but the crazy confusion of it is still with me all this time later...

![fantasy-2861107_640 (1).jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmaJC1nCFDo8PKR5A6ASytgKdqGTdhUsvpcx9284itxXSe/fantasy-2861107_640%20(1).jpg)

Oh yeah, and now he’s going to moan, I can feel it coming on to break me open, and if I wasn’t floating around in here full of bubbles I’d surely sell him a piece of my art, going cheap honey: a dollar a throw.

Now when the landlord heard about this he immediately became panic stricken and broke open a chicken to pluck the sorrows into a bowl of what he was making up so as to appear as everything wanted.

Well I thought I was going to die, until they fixed my spare wheel.

So away I rode into the sunset, and I really didn’t think about it that much anymore after that.

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Someone hissed at this from their grave and made me think that maybe I’d change my wine label to something.

Five words and eleven months later...

Five words came by and brought a green bottle full of dead soldiers to pray for heaven where we have never gone before, so it was said. I took a back foot on this as I was saving up my pennies and cleared the third word before my age-page caught up to me in the behind with an old boot and got me where it doesn’t show.

so much for saving I thought.

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Is God is an old boot? Never mind, just watch out for the government and the strychnine in the lead where we lose our huge to become small.

I think we must all make up our own prayer to combat all that comes at us to make us slaves.

The original take on this was scarcity that threw up false flags everywhere to deceive us into what we didn’t know to become insane or something.

But now we know better, don’t we?

It has been said that the skinny soul is the preacher that comes for us at midnight to take us from our happy place down into hell; but I think it was the sisters who kept my soul in a jar and worshipped the devil that were the real evil ones that came for me in the daylight to whip me and call me dark and stupid as if they wanted to make me that way to be.

Every night I'd look up at the stars and wonder who I was.

![milky-way-1023340_640.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmZWwpuuVzRBRgqX7iqfqEreKea9AzvP9dsW2uPP9abb8g/milky-way-1023340_640.jpg)

It has been said that the broken die faster.

Satan has many followers, and most of them live on the top of their hill.

Crumbling now into dust that dream of the darkness where we all turn away from it and create our own expectations of how it is and how we want it to be.

A truth comes to be known, and those that see it shout it from the rooftops, but those that don’t carry on making it: so un-pure.

Those that see: know, and those that don’t see: don’t know…

![woman-994737_640.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmThAxoVVGpvNctT7ePtuAv6gjPZCSR926fwttMk1F3Hz8/woman-994737_640.jpg)

Number eleven: if you’re waiting for something and it’s taking too long: then give it up, life is a missed opportunity if it’s not grabbed in the now.

Pacing the time...

![ganesha-1853602_640.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmNihGwLixLxjwnD5zpSF2c26DUKAB9ncHpZDck64V54is/ganesha-1853602_640.jpg)

Time, when it’s painting, has a lot of fools to play with; and some of them come from under the mountain, and some of them come from up top, but most of them came from the slave ship: that dream that came to us when we were unknowing in the perceptions of all we were to entangle us in time, that place where the fools dance, and all is one and where time is not here yet enough to matter.

I think though that this perception is full of blind men come to pray wherever their feet take them.

My feet though were getting cold out the back of this so I pressed on into the dawn.

Many thoughts later there came an idea that the suicide wasteland of an old soul was too cold to contemplate; and so saving this until later and with my freezing fingers I typed on…

![typewriter-2703450_640.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmd28Azu1hALLHqt7aFCRD71HuukRJoeP6Sfg6Ynx9nZHB/typewriter-2703450_640.jpg)

Outside, in the rain and the frost of the dark night, the dream was slipping into solitude as my fingers became tired of holding on so long to the movement that was going nowhere.

This, I said to myself as I lost myself over and over again until there was nothing left and I had to start over, all over again.

Just because I can; that I can get up, again and again, to carry on; because I am not dead yet.

Can I arise beyond here, where I have fallen, to make this whole thing a better place for all of us, without pacing the time in the hope of something better coming along?

![man-335400_640.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmQAj9k1GbxHx3CutEbyeX4SMGrF2L4GL3yYqQ5LWzEqsq/man-335400_640.png)

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End of part one
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