You shouldn’t do that. You’re too young; you’re too old. You shouldn’t get your hopes up, that way you’re not disappointed. You’re a dreamer and dreamers don’t accomplish anything. No one’s done it before, so it can’t be done. You can’t. You’re not smart enough. You’re not good enough.
The artists of death are all around me, speaking in familiar voices and common words. Their messages are rational and may be sincere, meant for my best interest. In the end, they’re a slow death.
Common sense is great… until it kills you.
Death and fear are the weeds that attack my soil.
There comes a point when dying is no longer an option, when living is the only choice.
These artists of death are illusionists for they do not own the rights to my death.
I own the rights to my life, and I will not allow anyone to take it from me.
He, who is the Author of my life, removes death from my soil—all that remains is life.
Where there is life there is happiness.
Where there is life… love always follows.