Does it truly matter? Or is existence divided into a mindless play on the mind that we’re not alive and the cruel truth we live when we have to survive? When you think a little deeper, there’s no evidence to support either opinion. No answer can satisfy such a unique mindset, and the very idea that we don’t exist is incomprehensible to the human. We bled for meaning, for something important, for something compelling and permanent, to twitch and cry in the shower as we push ourselves, to throw ourselves under layers of salvation. But beneath one layer, always another. We come to the thought of eternal life or eternal damnation, both irresistible to us, processing perverse pleasure in our stomach. We dig pits, lick our fingers, from mud, and rub our eyes with plasticine to see a different reality. We extinguish cigarettes on our wrists, kissing strangers only to try something divine they have told us is in them, that once we taste the unknown, we wake up with broken cyanide bottles in our hands, and fingerprints on our necks. And we find pleasure, we exist. We patch incompatible materials to cover places that have been torn apart by those whose meaning has never been meaningless. And we obey it and resist it at the same time. But time is not the same when we try to invent a unit of measure to weigh equality. To whom do we justify ourselves, to whom do we mean nothing but filled with everything? We’re here, and we’re not. The meaning of life is immaterial when we are aware of it; to want to be alive, breathing or not, but to survive, too. You never know. We pick up the carpet, and below is dust. For too long we have been rising questions we have no answers to, so, we are surprised at how hard the steps are, and how easy the ground we walk is, unsteadily, unlived. We spilled gasoline in our chest only to feel it burn. For something more magnificent than the life we breathe, for something that will calm us down after our skeletons burn, and reincarnate into different bodies. But those bodies are more intricate than the mind that guides them. I believe that in the meantime, we have found a core of nonexistence for the gained experience, or perhaps life that cries deadly. And the tears are bitter when they fall on the sugar-sprinkled paper; life is marvelous. It’s not in vain that saying that even sugar looks like salt. The stamp on that paper is just decoration when our eyes want to see only beauty. And who will be brave enough to hear the mystery of life when life is the narrator of its story? It’s permanently sealed what we don’t need to know, why bother at all what lies behind our gaze? To perceive, we must eliminate the meaning. After all, what represents desire if not just a reminder of our imminent death, the afterlife belief that indeed everything doesn’t matter? A pendulum that stands and time challenging it, and now we are only the wine dripping from the veins of the sky, it’s split wide open, again and again. We see the clouds wore over us and the dust that floods our lungs. If this is our only chance, why not dance in suits tonight, in acid-soaked dresses, on a live mud podium, dance with Mephisto, to breathe gasoline and push our fingers like blades into each other, to lick eternity off our beards and pour our pupils with acid. To sell him our soul for one gift, for youth. Ours is this world, it’s ours, devouring language of demons because it’s in us, so if it matters whether we are alive because we exist, or exist to live, let it also be understood what consumes us from within. There’s no doubt. We will surely burn. But at least we will burn under our skies.