Hello, Andy Warhol

A man who murdered his own heart, convinced it would give him the world; the saddest thing was that, it did.

Nothing hurts more than the helplessness that punched at his gut. Who could ever tell the difference between him of the present and him of the past? Was he a changed man? Could a man ever change or does he simply shred his own skin like a serpent and anew himself raw and sly within his new form? Half the world thinks not while the other half thinks so. Was he a different man, or was he simply who he had been but with new struggles? Being alive, or just breathing, seemed to be like so much work. One would say being born is similar to a kidnapping, then being enslaved to human trafficking. You can never rest. You can never stop. You, too, are not allowed to die ‘lest society declares an execution over your head.

“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”

I desperately hope there’d be another way, for I do not wish to lose my beating heart to the cruel world.

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