Chapter 1: Morals In The Brink Of Death: Introduction
Regarding goodwill, I am not hesitant to say that I am myopic. In a way, I am close to the dead. I've experienced death in many ways, but now I have been diagnosed as psychotic. Things tend to feel out of my reach, and life is not to my understanding as "good." And honestly, I have already tried to find out why humans and creatures are so attached to this word when we have barely even experienced it too long. This disgusting world has constantly made me hate myself and turmoil my brain to what's and what not's; I don't know who I am, let alone what we are and who made us. I have no cohesion or grasp of my reality or imagination because all I hear is "believe." Believe when no one has taught me what belief is but instead taught me what belief can be.
For example, evolution, the term evolution is the base of our beliefs and the explanation of our world. Many theories are thought of or made to answer our questions on the history and origins of our universe/ multiverse, life, and how the first human was created. And the result of that landed on three main branches of the cosmos, energy, and man. The unique or instantaneous creation, the developmental creation of theistic, and the atheistic evolution; and it doesn't stop there because it can continue for I don't know how long, but what I can tell you is that there will always be someone against every argument no matter how accurate or proper you may be because no one saw the whole process. Also, I can reassure you that many other theories have broken my sanity, like the law of attraction, like come on, we all know that kind people are the ones that get hurt the most, yet the law of attraction says that whatever energy you have attracts back to you. They call me crazy, paranoid, an overthink, and an underachiever. And the only question in my head right now is, "Who am I."
Every moment is a chance of death when I sleep, so I treat it as such. Last night, near my last breath, I saw ghosts around me and a rhythm of three knocks at my door trying to agitate me, so I opened it to find no one on the porch. I am not afraid to leave; therefore, they cannot waver me. Down my chest is cold, and it's spreading over my body, making me feel light-headed, spread over my body like a spiral stone that just keeps growing and growing, not seeing an end to this heavy feeling weighing me down physically unreluctant so that I can stay down. But crawling from beneath the haven, I can see the dead who are still restless, pleading for someone to honor their memory, begging for someone to bring justice to light, and yet I cannot hear any words, except I can only hear their mumbles, their voice. Remorse has yet to touch my heart at the site. All I feel is envy for the dead. I can listen to the dead, they don't call me in particular, but I am one of the few that can hear them. There are 12 of us, and none of them I have met. A wise man once told me in my death that there will come a day when we will all meet; patience will reward me well, but eagerness will disrupt my preparation. My thoughts are phenomenal enough not to resist my corruption from within; it is truly exquisite. I impaled myself to keep my mind sane, "they" tried to skewer it though it did not close, then again he tried; however, it freed me and made me open my mind to think. Toon was scared to lose what made me; I had no choice. I could not bear "them" no longer than a cat abstaining in front of a rat. I affectionately bayonet "them, yet they did not understand and wept within my embrace. Slowly fading away, their ne was cut short by my scissor.
And at that moment, a faint bellow called my name. Did you die on cold hard pavement…alone?
No, we were always alone. Even if I am there by your side at death's wake, we will still go the same way we came, alone. So do not fill your head with such nonsense and lies of death, for you have yet to experience or, in some cases, remember Mr. Death. I mean not to inform you but to remind you of the pain you must comprehend.
The voice calling me penetrated unsettling eeriness, ratting my mind even more, yet it felt so satisfying, as if it was intoxicating me with rich pure ethanol. The following day you passed asleep. You implored me last night's dream to stay, yet you "undoubtedly" denied it. Now you've defunct to Satan's side. Call me a devil, but do not dare if you cannot say it to my face. You often try, run, and fail to succeed in your deeds. Then again, you've failed to weaver me to do so. This is my dark, also befitting demise.
My name is Carwyn, like in the story my grandma used to read. But the voices of the dead, souls of those who wonder, and the seven fragments of Blessing, call me Jaakobah.
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