(a/n: hallo, again. Oh come on- please R&R I'm beggin' you here!)

PS: Please don't get offended with my message here, I speak because I can speak- before I am entirely swallowed by society and it's narrowmindedness. Hehehe, death is here- don't tell me I didn't warn you. PG-13 for content)


*Before this world ends- nothing seems to matter and we are thrown into a void. But, we are at the brink- the shore- the edge. Something quite different happens when we fall.

You, my dear reader, are looking at a blank page. Well- I'll be honest- once a blank page. It was blank before I defiled it, filling it with what might end up in your garbage as the most idiotic piece of literature ever written. Let's say this page, this sheer white fa├žade is your skin- your own life if you're the dramatic type. How would it feel now that I'm tying upon it?.

*you will scream, you will die- you did die.

You died because the person that you were is no longer there- that person is replaced by someone else. Someone, let's say, is perfect. No scratches, no misspelled words, just PERFECT. Imagine yourself as PERFECTION. How would you look like? How would you act? Who would you be?

This is how I view death- it is when something is gone. Death means to leave. Death is applicable to anything. I am not trying to be morbid, or even just a bit gothic. No. I am trying to see death in a new light. Twisted, perhaps, but in a new light.

Since you were the blank page- you meant. . . absolutely nothing. When people look at you- they don't think about anything. It's a blank page- so? You were insignificant. But, when you turned, when you died, people could see something. They could read what you had to say. You had some kind of meaning. You had purpose.

Don't get me wrong- I'm not trying to say, even to imply that you have to die to be worth something. In all my senseless babble- I have one message which I hope you will take the time to read.

We were once all blank pages. I am a blank page. We have experienced it- and death. By God we have experienced death. In some way we had to change- we had to fit in, make a mold for ourselves. We're not really truly satisfied until we are perfect. Until we have been used, until we have purpose. Sometimes when the page gets just far too messy, we revise, rewrite. We tear it- thus we die. We die in change because, sometimes, change does mean death.

We have all been rewritten before we are being rewritten now. Even as I speak I make a dent upon you. I hit, perhaps shallow or not.

We are young, thus more blank pages. In fact in think life is one big page just waiting to be filled, torn, messed up etc.

Now, all we have to do is pluck up the courage to edit. Ah, editing, the most tedious process in an author's life.

So, in conclusion- I leave you with a question as I have left my other thoughts- have you changed? Have you died? Have you rewritten yourself?


(a/n: hope I didn't offend anyone. I didn't mean to- but if you were- then flame it! hehe, I just want to know how I'm doing ok? Please review!)