Psychoticharry Histoires

the story about a girl in love with a boy who's no good for her. 505 - the arctic monkeys

Alternate Story of NeverEnding Story Series "I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being." ― Osamu Dazai -------------------------- In a moment of weakness, Death against his better judgment as he sunk into the deprivation that was loneliness, defied the natural order to create a child purely of death. A pure soul which knew only the peace and comfort of death, yet did not have an understanding towards the meaning and value of life. A soul that Death came to refer affectionately to as Shuji. A child that would be of many names, adored by higher beings, as the companion of Death. However, there exists an order to chaos. In a plane of safety, souls could not grow. Only by being sent to earth would they grow through experience and hardships. Shuji was the same. Now, Death adores his child. The desire to see his precious creation flourish and grow was extreme, overwhelming his senses. In this desire, he had joyously sent his child to earth foolishly. The dead were never supposed to remain among the living. Nor would they ever understand their beating hearts. It was only in death's embrace which they found comfort, peace, and happiness. Shiju, born from death in its pureness, could not grow upon earth as he could not comprehend life. Yet, in Death's despair, he could never bring himself to reap the warm soul of his companion to destroy any chance that his soul would grow. So again and again he sent it back to earth. And that warmth, that flickering flame eventually gave out. It was this overwhelming desire, adoration, and favoritism that was the reason Shuji often became one, Dazai Osamu. That his little Angel of Death, had fallen into deprivation and been misguided. BSD x HP

I am here to tell you a story. A story that will torture your thoughts by day and poison your dreams by night. And though I will do my best, there are no words that can be written, nor brush strokes laid on canvas that can describe the stark and utter horror of the night that Louis died.

The thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him; the horror was, that he might also be wrong.