This is the beggining of a book I'm writing. Comments?
I know there is air around me,
but it feels that it can’t get to my lungs.
I know there are people around me trying to help,
but it seems their arms are to short to reach me.
I know there is hope still in me,
But I know I don’t have enough time to find it.
Not enough time to breath.
Not enough time to grab hold to the reaching hands.
Not enough time to move.
No time left.
In movies peoples lives flash before their lives. But I’ll never be sure if I’m dead. Usually people either see black or white. But I’ve never seen anything else. Can you think when your dead? Probably not, but I wouldn’t know.
I remember being lectured when I was just five. I had picked up a book and began to read. Like in most books I read, I immediately began to get sucked in. Not all at once but every word moved farther back into a world of science and superstitions. The book was about life after death. It was made up of various reported stories. They gave me a mysterious icy feeling, but not Ice cube ice it was frosty. Frost has always seemed to make muddy ground seem critical and futuristic. I was normally praised for reading, since I was just learning brail, but my overprotective parents didn't understand frosty reading, and that its not such a bad thing. Life after death seemed to dark for me to know, that is according to them. They thought anything real would make me insane, drive me crazy. But what is the world without craze? Nothing but normal, nothing but caged birds.
Nothing has ever been so real. Nobody has ever been real. True individuality has never been real. Witch is why this is so satisfying. It’s all up to me. Is moving worth my time. It probably wont make a difference I’ve wasted my time thinking so I better finish. But please, let me start at the beginning.
