Matrix

Does it really matter if you’re half dead or half alive when you’re lying down the streets, with frost bitten fingers, with no food, no shelter, in a rainy day that has gone so bad?

Does it really matter if you’re half dead or half alive when you don’t know who you are, what you are, or where you should be, in a grey day with no sun shining, after a rainbow stream that has gone so dim that now it can’t be seen?

Does it really matter if you’re half dead or half alive when your heart fails to beat, your lungs fail to breathe, your body fails to slide down the road so steep, just to feel alive under the rays of a rare January sun?

Does it really make that big of a difference when you realize that you’ve been beaten to death, thrown out of a speeding car, down a hill that is paved with rocks at its bottom, with no aid to be provided and no help to be sought?

Does it really matter if you know if the cup is half full or half empty, when you’re half way dead thirsty, and the cup is just out of reach?

Does it really matter to know if you’re half dead or half alive when you’re scrolling down the news feed of a social media network, of no remarkable significance, through a tiny screen of an internet page, and posts of children getting butchered, limbs getting obliterated, houses getting bombed off; some people existing in some place, far far away, being massacred by the money you pay to your government in the form of taxes that you cut out of your salary and you deeply need, come along, yet you act towards the posts, the pictures, the news, and the cartoons, showing the irony of the matter, as if they are not even there. You just scroll down, push a button, come along another post that makes you laugh hysterically and you leave your post, your laptop and the news and pictures, which are crying at your idiocy, their insignificance and disregard!

Does it really matter when you realize and believe that your heart is dead, your emotions are dead, your humanity is dead, what makes you you is all dead and you’re left with fragments of pain and misery, disguised in the form of money and dreams that you beat your fucking ass off to achieve and you suddenly awaken from your delusions to find yourself sleeping under 6 inches of mud, covered in concrete and granite, left alone with no regards to your cries for help, to rot and be food for the parasites that celebrate their new food factory, gifted to them?

Nothing really matters when you’re entrapped in a body that has no function but to imprison you, yet deceives you in the illusion of freedom that it creates, and makes you believe that it really does exist, then makes you fight for it till you die and realize that it was never there, and being free is the ultimate prison that you think you’ve broken out from the more you get lost in its maze.