In the end they’re gonna judge you anyway so whatever.
I’m learning to love endings. It’s almost sadistic even, maybe, I don’t know. Something like the way a paper turns brown and curls as if writhing in pain as fire consumes it. That kind of pain, I see as art.
While the poor paper disappears, devoured by the devil of a flame, isn’t it bitterly ironic however that it is the fire that was more beautiful?
I’m learning to love the hate I get from my writings, both existing and nonexistent. Kept as proof to shackle me? I’m sorry there won’t be apologies.
You know why I love the hate? It’s because it trains me to rise higher each time.
You talk about me but I don’t know your name.
That’s exactly how legends live.
You show me what you lack pathetically, honesty, self-respect, love and respect for others.
I solemnly promise I shall strive to fulfill what you have failed to do so.