The Glorification (and Beautification) of an Old Man’s Suicide

Teeth corroded with a lust for madness, you smile, although tears

stream down your dirty, thin cheeks. Trees, burdened with ripening

despair surround you, their tenants long gone and their leaves long shed.

All searching for life; all fearing their deaths.

There is an immense amount of beauty in the burning of an old house, of old pictures

and blurred memories. As this occurs, a paradox is formed, from the striking

of a match, to the collapse of a foundation, to the blackened snowfall of ash.

The creation of destruction, the destruction of creation. A flaming catalyst fluttering

downward through the muggy autumn air, a blazing, kamikaze

butterfly plummeting down toward earth. Drop one into a pool of regret,

which, unbeknownst to the world, is flammable. Let it lick and devour its prey;

let it paint the land red. And as you allow flakes of tarnished life to blanket

the ground, and the shoulders of your shirt, the divine intervention that is

creation is underway, and in the midst of destroying, you have created. Space!

What entity is responsible for such indescribable beauty. How wonderful it is

to look out and see nothing, all the while seeing everything. What a magic

it is, to see a great nothing wallowing within that very something.

But, do not fear the fraying of man’s existence. Marvel at your creation.

And what can come of swallowing a match? Liberation of death!

Confinement of life! Insanity can be one sad, beautiful thing.