Awake and Delerious

What stage do we enter in the morning? Do we consider life in stages or a whole? Is death a stage, but before that would murder be considered a prelude to it, or another stage, a different level all together.

Cases could be made for both. For some people, such as cooking, the preparation is a stage, then the actual cooking, where as others would take both and count it as one. When you look at life, what stage would you consider yourself to be in? Are you living or are you twenty? Are you in the stage of alertness, or is it just the afternoon?

What happens when the corpse that was murdered at the lake, and dumped in the water winds up in your shower the next morning?

I'm taking these stages of writing, of living, and implementing them into writing. In this case I'm in the second life of my first creation. I'm in the fifth level of a world where I can easily overshadow any cock hugger that has seen their words printed on fine paper, and placed on marketing bookshelves around the world. How much can we want before what we want becomes meaningless? Sometimes we learn the value of what we do before the world even comes close to understanding what we are, for they will never know who we are. We won't let them.

Why do we surround ourselves by things, when the greater part of the universe wraps us in its cool, ever evolving cloak of infinity every day, every hour, in the middle of every thought?

Only when we understood how gravity worked could we learn to fly. Only when we learn to fail can we begin to succeed. After we realize what we are, can we begin to know who we ourselves are.

It is late. Not so late that I'm willing to shoot Nyquill into my veins, and enter a neon green coma. It is late, and in a year, maybe two I could be dead. When we die, who's going to be in the casket?