Partners in Crime

You're gonna leave someday,
but I hope I stay
Inside your heart,
even though we're miles away.
Cause what scares me
is the thought that you'll grow up
and you'll forget that I'm waiting,
the same I ever was.
The same I ever was. 

Blowing Bubbles

It was the eleventh day of the month twice after January, twenty-three minutes, scratch that, twenty-two minutes to the hour after five in the afternoon with some uncertain amount of seconds having passed when I first realized: bubbles are evil.

Manipulative, selfish, little creatures, bubbles are. And I'm not even talking about the searing pain, twice the heat of a thousand white hot suns, when the little devils pop in your eye.

No, I've always thought of them as a protection from the outside world, a shield. But if you go on thinking like that, they'll return the favor by locking you in instead.

That's why you and I will never be important. 

The inside babies the prideful. It praises the selfish, the rationalizers, the pretenders, the judgemental, and most of all, the liars.
And the outside lets loose the dirty, the sinners, the the rationalizers, the work-a-holics, and the reckless. At least they're honest about it.

So it doesn't matter who's life you save, or the amount of money you make, or the quality of your latest blog post. You will never make it to the hall of fame.

It's all because you're inside. You're the pride being babied, and so am I. 

But who said you couldn't pop the bubble? The splash might sting a little, but no one ever got anywhere without a little opposition.

If you're still breathing you're the lucky one.

Death is the permanent cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism.

"[But] suppose that people live forever. . .

With infinite life comes an infinite list of relatives.

Sons never escape from the shadows

of their fathers. Nor do daughters of their mothers.

[With life] no new enterprise is new. All things have

been attempted by some antecedent in the family tree.

[With life] no person is whole. No person is free.

Over time, some have determined

that the only way to live is to die. In death, a man or

a woman is free of the weight of the past. These few

souls, with their dear relatives looking on, dive into

Lake Constance or hurl themselves from Monte Lema,-

ending their infinite lives. In this way, the finite has

conquered the infinite, millions of autumns have

yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls have

yielded to no snowfalls, millions of admonitions have

yielded to none."

Death is the permanent cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism.

Life is the general or universal condition of human existence.

Infinite life is chaos.

A chaos that never ends.

So through the eyes of one living an infinite life, through the eyes of one who knows all, who has seen all, heard all, tried all, been all, there is nothing quite more relinquishing

than death.

Funny, seeing death as relinquishing when through the eyes of one who lives a normal life, death is adorned with pain. Every soul breathes its last breath, heaving through corrupted lungs before it joins the choir invisible, and perishes.