There were days when the saturation of death, and the realities of life, became too great. Days where I felt suffocated, heavy. I'd try to grasp for a breath, and I'd fail. Yet, just in the nick of time, I would somehow, once again, be resuscitated. The world grew dark, cold. A black cloud looming over everything that I saw. People evolved into monsters-caricatures, and EVERYTHING was frightening, everybody was a predator!
The world transformed, and I would choke. Plumes of dust representing reality, as they sought an exit from my mouth, as I wheezed, and I gasped. Reality was choking me, saturating me with its heaviness.
Control? None whatsoever. Not over things, not over people. No, that was Life's illusion; control was the magic trick. The lack of control, I was truly speaking of, was the inevitable-death. The one thing that tied to everything, everyone. Every neurotic thought, every impulse.
It was Death. The Random Act.