Snow doesn't fall in the summer

What does it mean to be alive to you?
Is it to thrive and enjoy life?
To simply survive and endure it?
Or does it mean to simply not be dead?

There's no definite answer to the question, the same with the question of are cats and dogs better? Or is blue better than red? Opinions will always overlook the prospect of facts. At least, that's what Floris thought. For years, opinions had swayed facts. Corrupt politicians with emotions being ahead of their reason, and when money blinds those alike. Power, life, money, feelings. None of it has logical answers, but there's one thing that always, and should've always had one definition.

Death.

It's to die, to cease existence and to breathe the last breath of your body's soul. To die isn't just to cease being, but memory.
But what happens if you only ever die physically? Your memory goes on, never dying and forcing your soul to forever be tethered to the human realm.
It never should've ended how it did, but even so, he never wanted to be thrown back into the mess that was being alive.

As you might be wondering, why is he talking about life and death? What's up with all this phycological stuff? I don't care just let me read the book! And the thing is, it's all connected. You may want to read the book, but for what reason must I continue to play the part of being its main source of entertainment? At what point does being creative instal more fear rather than joy in its characters? The answer is, with all opinions expressed and ignored simultaneously, there is never a limit for an authors pen, for an artists brush, for a humans brain.

At what point does hot feel cold? And when does cold turn hot? Again, there's no answer in this world not morphed by human opinion. So I'll let you, not as the author, not as the character, not as anything other than the reader and viewer of this story.

At what point, does a book need to finish?
At what point, does an author set their pen down?
At what point, does a character snap?