Doing it to Death, I could write a book

He was seemingly awakened, and therefore felt as a sensational conquerer feels, consciously aware of his ability to question perceptions while simultaneously maintaining a mysterious connection to an essence of aging imperfection in an ever fleeting moment of constant change. He had committed suicide over and over again to no avail, much like an alchemist, desperately fearing and chasing death, yearning for resurrection, release from the cycle, but a circle is never ending. So he detached himself from desire for approval, desire for life and the admiration from mortal companions, seeking refuge in the self-creation of a self-propelling star, a higher body, a wheel- he had created a creator. All other living creatures became but creations of his mind, relations with others were seen as reflections in the fabric of the cosmos, silently urging him onwards along the ethereal path of wisdom. His spirit was in charge, commanding direction as his body learned to listen. A gift and a curse. He wouldn’t stop until he felt permanently united with the universe, finding refuge only in the written word. In text lies something heavenly; immortally, words of profound arrangement live on long after the author or scribe has passed.

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