Tell me this, what does it take to become? The price every man pays, in the currency of the soul. To get so very lost in your own head, to not pay head to what it is that you become.
To be able to break a heart, so gentle, so effortless, that all you hear is distant clink of shattered glass, lost in cacophony of your futile existence. The reverberation of an act that makes heaven sigh in a lone bellow.
To become a creature of an elaborate design. A willful exercise in true malevolence, in guise of free will. An abhorrence, one crafted by ignorance of man, so drunk on the little power he has.
All the makings of true tragedy, of a poison that sets on the faintest of touch, seething deep within, corrupting and yet somehow fails to kill.
A creature devoid of all remorse, faith lost, leaving behind only lingering doubt. Kneeling, to a God that has long since turned away.
The cursed ones, abandoned to a long, cold confinement. Under a blanket of shimmering stars, dull silence that pierces the abyss. The perfection cage of creation, the bane of existence.
A serpentine maze not meant for you. A conscious so riddled with conflicts. Of a soul at war with the mind. The rotting stench of dead flesh, taste of iron over the lips, of the inevitability of an imminent death of spirituality. A shire to defiled sanctity.
We are the architects of nothing. Little seeds, only sown for death to reap. A profound yet entirely meaningless circle of life and pain.
We are what we are, we are what we have become. Our own gods of everything and nothing. Caught in own worship, our own games, unable to solve our own riddles.
So tell me now, what does it take to become? And at what price.
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