YOU NAME IT

"TO BE DELETED OR TO BE PRESERVED"

I've always wanted to be a singer. One of those singers that packs stadiums with each concert, people from all generations in front of him, teens naked in their rooms while listening to his stuff with their overpriced shiny headphones, and parents complaining about his stuff to other parents. Just so that I could feel, that others truly feel, the bullshit thoughts that are wielding axes in my mind yelling "ANSWER ME YOU TIRED SOUL". Take Eminem for example, with a better camouflaged anger and a classier beard.

I don't wanna become a singer because I have a great voice or any sort of talent in any kind, or I have a passion for music, nor because I have a picture of a Grammy award framed on the wall of my room, dreaming every night of getting it. Nor because I want to sniff cocaine off of someone's special parts. (Aren't all body parts just cells? What's the difference between shaking hands when meeting and honking boobs?) Or cause I want to always have chicks around me, or to have that blue tick next to my name on my Instagram page or cause I want my Wikipedia page to be filled with links about youth related scandals.

I want to be a singer just because in the middle of a performance, all of a sudden I could drop the mic and whip out my book and read it for thousands of drunk audience. That way I could ruin some people's concert experience and maybe get some of them to think. Or even if I'm lucky, I could see their reactions, while it is still new and uncompromised. To be the first spectator of my work.

To shout out all I feel at the moment. To tell them that I really am still thinking about the zebra cluster fuck. Are they black or are they white? To tell them that I firmly believed in God back when I was a kid but then my beliefs changed, so is it possible that the words in my book change too? To tell them that I think that all that differs pets from wasps that we kill every day is the connection we've made and they would have no value if they didn't belong to us in a way. To tell them out of all the 3 options I offered in the previous chapter, option #1 seemed excessively appealing today, and a grown ass person could fit inside the frame of my window, even Arnold can pass through it easily.

A lot of people freak out when the thought of suicide comes to their mind. It's become like a huge taboo, a big ass taboo, bigger than finishing your pizza and not leaving it uneaten at the restaurant on your first date, cause you should look less like a secretly instinct driven person in front of your date, that you probably won't call back. It has gotten further away from an option that a man should consider, and has turned more into an unconventional method of saying "I SEEK ATTENTION".

If you've ever encountered a priest, (God I hope it was after the age of 14, especially if you're a boy.) you will most probably guess their views on the matter, that the almighty lord, (Think of what Lex told Clark at the top of the building.) has created this prosperous life for a purpose and all in it are here because God loved them very much. The world is a fantastic place and our souls love being here more than anything else, that it is filled with joy and is inherently important and valuable. They'd say we should preserve it.

And if you go and study any other sane person's view on life, you will understand that more or less, they all agree on the fact that as much as the rules of physics apply to everyone, so does the importance and sanctity of life. These people are the ones who don't go to the pharmacy while doing the nasty and 9 months later end up with a noisy creature in their arms, demanding boobs. They think of life as a gift.

But then again if you have ever thought about the things Hitler or the naked author has done, a dose of doubt will get into your mind. Doubting whether this world is good or not. I mean would the babies burned in the holocaust prefer coming here or would they much have preferred to be spilled on a tissue preborn?

The question is that, is life inherently good or does the quality of it matter? Would your life still be an amazing wonderland if you were living in the poorest of conditions? But then again how much of a fun could it be to open your eyes in an environment, not knowing why you're there, not knowing what you should do there, not knowing who has created all that surrounds you and what is right and what is wrong? How fun could it be to never have your questions answered, and how fun could it be to never be naked in public? How fun could it be to wrestle melancholy everyday?

After many years of studying, I've finally concluded my research on why some commit suicide and some just go with it.

If you have been privileged enough to own a PlayStation, you will know that there are good games and there are bad games out there. (Of courseeee I'm degrading Call of duty.) And after a few sweet rounds of playing a game you will understand whether that particular game is worth sacrificing your love life to or not.

If yes, you will continue to play it for many years, and if you don't like it, you will most rationally quit the game and go take a nap. Never caring what happens in the game after you're gone cause, man that game sucked. Will other NPCs miss the main character? Who cares?

The value of life through the eyes of some is considered to be the quality of it, just as how a bad game (Again, please think of Call of duty.) gets bad reviews and fewer people like to play it year after year, and stop caring about it and just throw the game out the window, some people consider whether they should continue breathing or not. But then again, have you ever done anything in your life that was not fun or didn't give you pleasure?

God I wish the next life I transfer to will be more like Battlefield and less like Call of duty.

Or maybe I am thinking too much cause I know that I will never gain the courage to delete my game (I mean I paid 60 bucks for it after all.), so I go to the closest bar that contains a lot of dangerous crap around it, (A highway, an open well or a high school next to it in America) and drink my awareness away, so much that I can barely walk, and then all I can think of is the void which I've always craved, one that I need. Then I step out the door, in the search for the great perhaps, hoping that someone or something does it for me.

(TO BE CONTINUED)