Death is a profound thought process.

You’re not breathing anymore — veins bursting like landmines.

People cry for you, the ones who never cared.

Yet there you lie, peace in your heart,

a smile on your face,

freed from the burden of this mortal, material world

that worships gain but forgets to feel.

We sell each other in the marriage system,

a barter deal straight from an economics textbook.

Life? Just a long-lasting inflation.

You feel like an indentured labourer,

carrying bricks on your back and your heart,

yet smear on a fake laugh like makeup.

Telling the world, “I’m alright,”

while you’re chapped and hollow inside.

A haunted mansion of flesh and bone,

your tears echo in the silence.

You deliver monologues to indifferent walls,

getting pierced by invisible bullets —

yet there’s no blood, no death, just

a quiet burial inside your chest.

You live life like a suicide bomber on pause,

counting down to detonation —

alienated, unloved, unseen.

You drink molotov cocktails like Che Guevara,

survive nuclear fallout like cockroaches.

You ask yourself:

"Am I finally free from Plato’s cave?

Or still admiring shadows, like Narcissus,

destined to die gazing at myself?"

Am I the master of my cage?

Or am I a prisoner of free will and its mirage?