Pour vivre est de mourir

Musik: The Art of Suicide - Emilie Autumn
Kleiden: Red lacy tights, pinafore dress
Filme: Nightmare Before Christmas (Selick)
Buchen: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

This poem reminds me a little of the famous Shakespeare monologue 'All the world's a stage' from As You Like It. And the 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow' speech from Macbeth. I guess it's a universal theme.

Little, amorphous blob of joy;
Dribbling, puking, shitting;
Miniature fingers, toes and nails
Staring gormlessly,
Blissfully unaware of the world,
Ignorant to the extreme.
What it is to be you!
To know nothing at all but what you see,
To do nothing but follow base desires.
But why wonder at you?
You are new.
You are the same as every other of your kind.
And you shall become the same as everybody else;
Dust.

Wrinkled, defined, wizened figure;
Drooling, coughing, gasping;
Gnarled knuckles, nails and feet
Glaring knowingly,
All too aware of the terror,
The monstrosity that is this world;
Tired of it.
We shall become you.
To age is to carry more and more weight,
Until that weight is unbearable, until it breaks your bones.
You are old.
Grey, fading fast but glowing, glowing
With that spark of life.
Pour vivre est de mourir…