The cult of Personality

There once was a cult called personality.

It was bound to words and lived from mouth to mouth. It talked about the moons and the rivers and the gore and the blood alike. It talked of its own pleading existence and it talked about his fleeting life. The very perception of his fleeing life and of death reminding him to live. 

So he casted his fears and fought wars to protect his life. He cries blood and bleeds rain to avoid the listlessness of his death. He does it all, this fool, while wishing for his self casted trouble to end.

He makes music with snow flowers and dances in the rain. He makes coffee to his pleasure and animalizes for closeness. He stares at the stars for peace and fights the dread of the dark. He sings of happy days in the occult of life.

And when granted- the very way to happiness he refuses for he is afraid of death. He then prays - for his own death to the gods of the underworld, which he himself has created. 

He sits.

And sits some more in the wallows of his entirety. Trying to find something, somewhat of a feelings or peace or happiness or rawness. He searches and searches some more till he is sure he awaits nothing.

There is no such thing which resembles his demands and foolishness.

He then says all that there is to his being is nothingness.