To die, to sleep, to dream. . . . To dream perchance in waking, . . . And waking find that it was but a dream.
Life is my playground. Or maybe this is all a dream . . . One day you're gonna wake up and realize that even with all your stuff, you're still not happy, because stuff will never make you happy. All stuff ever does is take up room and have to be dusted. People are the important thing, But also too . . . how you feel about yourself when you look in the mirror.
I'm 23 years old, a writer, poet, essayist, freethinker, and multiple. I don't really like labels, but live in a society that demands I use them. I guess you could call me eclectic pagan or gnostic, a vampire, a transcendentalist. I'd like to think that I am somehow above these things, but a part of me knows that they define who I am. Have you noticed yet? I'm a bit too introspective, but most don't mind. Spend three years in Hell in Utah, and your mind will end up a little off-kilter too. So do forgive my apathy.