Sedation leads to creation. Solitude breeding wonder with every breath. I’ve tasted normality and madness, and the latter is far more preferable. Failure is the key to everything. There is no loss, only footsteps that guide us all the way. Disaster while sat on the edge of the bed; words that remain hidden beneath layer upon layer of armour that the adult world imposed against my will. I’m not of this place. My desires and feelings a million miles away. Those who I inhabit this world with know nothing of the visions behind my eyes. They bow down to possession, to achievement. The notion of golden footsteps. It’s a nausea that keeps on giving. Depression visited me in my twenties. It sank its teeth in and drained me of the will to carry on. It wasn’t chemical, though; it was the outside world trying to change my beliefs. Art above all, that’s what I believed in. But the outside world said I had to be regular. To climb ladders and fake friendships with those I had nothing in common with. The lie. It’s worshipped as a deity. A modern god for a modern set of principles. It doesn’t mean shit to me, though. Sex sells, yet it’s as meaningless as a thousand smiles on a thousand magazines. They say don’t write this, write that. Be a journalist. Do anything other than what makes you happy. Be like others, and whatever you do, don’t be yourself. This is the world I inhabit. This is the conflict that never ends. Step back. Inhale smoke. Watch the bodies fall and be astounded how everyone appears like everyone else. Repetition mirrored to infinity. To kingdom come they circle carrion. They chew on tails while talking out the corners of their mouths. Flesh is temporary. It’s fresh for a while, and then it fades like flowers in a vase. It’s the easiest thing to fall in love with. It’s the easiest excuse there is to make. Lucid memory tells me that I’ve been here before. It shows me the way to salvation. Be who you want to be. No one else enters the equation. Leave the rest scratching at the stains while you lose yourself in the chaos of transformation. The journey is long. It consumes. There’s nothing else like it. Be something more than another pale imitation. You’re worth more than this. More than a job, and more than an icon of painted skin. Every day, in every way, the path is a little clearer. Too many things. Too much heartache. Just like your mother, nailed to something inanimate and not there. Just look at the stars instead, and smile as you remember the time you discovered a new sun. In her garden at the end of the world, you were the beginning of the end, and she was the end of your beginning.