Death is little more than just another way to live.
Without feeling.
Without being.
Why would I ever not want to be?
Not just to be something.
To be.
I recently checked an old account of mine on Wattpad. It’s barren. A dead wasteland of what I was back when I was only twelve years old. I can’t help but wonder about how many people I had affected just by existing alongside them, negatively or otherwise.
Every time I look back at my stories, I start thinking that I was such a scared little child who had only wanted to be noticed by people on the internet based on what I liked.
I didn’t care and was innocent about my actions being harmful. I moved on, and I decided to delete my next account because Wattpad decided to screw me over and take down one of the stories (which I CLEARLY marked as being somewhat offensive or inappropriate, not sexually, but contextually offensive) that I spent a lot of time working on.
The reads are just numbers on the screen. Doesn’t matter how many it had, point is, it didn’t need to be touched. Yet they haven’t even disabled or taken down a profile who has admitted they are 12 years old on several occasions…
How does death tie into this?
I don’t know, man, just come up with your own conclusion. I’ve given up on understanding existence a while ago, and unless you follow God, you should too. Otherwise, there’s no point.
