Life is full of surprises. Life is beautiful. Life is unexpected. Life is like an onion. Life is a bitch. Life is lifeless.

There is no point to life, and when there is no point to something there is also no purpose. Without purpose, there is emptiness. Emptiness lets in the dark, and from the darkness we cannot escape.

Trapped in a box we ourselves created, we struggle against the shadows which surround us, but all in vain. You cannot escape the nothingness when you are the one who tried to hide it away, only to lock yourself up along with it.

You beat on the box, but in reality there is no box, so you beat blindly on empty air, your arms swinging uselessly, your mouth pulling apart to scream empty words, your eyes wide and hollow flooding out empty tears.

Why do you cry? Why do you plead? To whom are you so desperately calling?

If an answer had been written, the world would have burned it. And so it had, and it has.

Written, inspiring millions to hope, and to dream. Burned, by the very ones who worshipped it. Now drowning in our sorrow, we the people take showers in the hot blood of the innocent in our feeble attempts to relax and calm our selfish selves. We look in the mirrors at our twisted reflections, though beauty and glimmers of possibility smiles back at us, all we see are ugly, ugly, ugly, disgusting, fat. Though blessed we are with health, wealth, and prosperity, we see nothing but the slime and filth that we really are. We blame it on age, We blame it on the enviroment. We cover it with makeup. We cover it with teeth whitener.

Though millions of others die each day, bodies broken, blood running out of cracks in their skulls, ribcages sunken and exposed from starvation, we pick at the hair on our chins and tug at the fat on our bellies, crying ugly ugly ugly to our reflections and also to ourselves. Hating who we are, not understanding why. Not wanting to understand.

We hate ourselves because we hate what we have become.

While the millions die starving we die of over-eating. We throw money in the streets and children stomp on it with their rain-boots. The puddles of mud the children hop to and fro, soiling their clothes and angering their parents, would be a well-spring of life to a person twitching and moaning. With lips torn and cracked, dry, dehydrated, through his glossy eyes, he would forever be looking towards hope, knowing that over the next hill, just a few more steps, water would be waiting for him. Though without realizing it, when he stops to rest under a shady rock, he will close his eyes and never awaken.

And a child kicks at a misplaced toad, pointing and yelling, ugly, ugly, ugly. Mothers snapping not to touch, warts, warts, warts are ugly, and if you get them you would be ugly, ugly, ugly. Hating who they are, hating what they were, hating what the future holds, parents scold and twitch their fingers around their childrens necks as they sleep, wanting to end it, wanting to change it. Knowing they can't, they move on towards their soft, warm beds, taking pills to knock them into sleep, sleep never comes for their minds are always plagued by guilt that they don't understand.

Ugly. The world is an ugly place.

Such misery lies behind every door. Even when you discover a hidden key to the golden door behind the curtain, though your eyes sparkle and gleam with hope, opening it will only shower down more misery.

Life has lost its purpose.

People amble from their homes to their cars to their jobs, only to repeat in reverse.

Cars become cars instead of people. Hunks of metal. In the way! Ugly car, you must be an ugly person. I hate you. Out of my way! Beep, beep, beep. Crash. It was his fault, that ugly nigger, he should be out in a cotton field, not driving machinery! Ugly! You fat American, so selfish and wicked, seeing only money when you stare at the sky, seeing coins showering down like rain, seeing a nice house and a nice car. Seeing only yourself.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

What is the point?

Live, die.

Death.

Then it's over.

You live, struggle as a child, hating yourself and your parents and the ones who tortured you at school. Growing up bitter, angry, acting out without knowing why. A burning in your chest, a hole that grows bigger as things fail to make sense.

Math. Learn it, or your life is a waste. You are an idiot without it. An outcast. A fool. Ugly! Just an ugly idiot redneck too lazy to learn anything about the real world.

What is real?

I look down at my hands at the paper on my desk, the pencil freshly sharpened, the eraser shavings scattered across my lap. The clock ticks on the wall. All around children scribble with tiny hands on the pages, creating letters and forming words and wasting those words on what is known as education.

If I want to know about the past, I will look it up. If I am interested in being a scientist, I will learn math. If I want to write a novel, I will study literature.

But what then?

Decide what you want to do, then go to school for four more years. Living at a desk. Holding pencils with shaking hands. Sweating. Nervous. Crying over a bad score. Slitting your wrists over what someone called you. Murdering your teacher over what grade they gave you. Hating yourself, hating your life.

Graduate now.

Go to work. Your college dream didn't work out. If it did, it's not what you expected. You have no career. You work tireless hours. The only joy you get is sleep and the only sleep you get is drug-induced. You awake by your alarm. Up. Hurry. Look nice. Look pretty. Not ugly. Can't be ugly. Go to work in nice car. Not an ugly car. You are a pretty person, therefore what you own must be pretty.

Sickening.

You hate your job. Your wife. Your husband. Your pets. Your children. Yourself. Nothing matters except money but in reality money doesn't even matter.

Money you pass down to your children who pass it to their children and so on and so forth.

But before you pass it on, you die.

You're dead. It's over. All your struggles, all your pain, all your tears, wasted on school and a dead-end job and a miserable existance.

Now, since religion never stuck with you, you're trapped forever in the endless pit of hell, burning in your own lies and sins, suffering, mourning your own patheticness.

But what can you do?

You try crying, but your tears burn away before they even fall from your eyes. You try praying, but God doesn't listen to the damned. You want to die, but you realize you are dead. The pain is unbearable but you cannot pass out from it. You wish it was over, but you know it never ends. Nothing left but this constant anguish and emptiness. Nothing left but pain and sorrow.

Life was pointless, and death brought no relief. You suffer in your pointless hell, and since your life was so pointless, you forget you ever lived. All you know now is the pain you brought on yourself. The pain you inflicted on others with your mindless living.

Hell should be crowded and overflowing. Bodies should be pressed against bodies, but it is not that way, for every person had been digging their whole life. Digging holes into their very souls. Deeper and deeper they dug, their own personal graves, without even realizing it. As they smiles and patted on more makeup, brushed their hair a little straighter, they were simply tossing more dirt out of their own tombs.

Each one a different depth, so each man to his own hole. There is no climbing out, for there are no walls. There is no digger deeping, for there is no ground. There is no gravity, yet you cannot stop sinking. You sink without moving, you burn without fire, you cry without tears.

This hell. This hell is pointless. Meaningless. Yet so was your life. A life without purpose should hold a death with purpose. It would only be fair. Yet, it is not about what you want or how it should be, it is about what you deserve.

When you live without a reason, you die forever in reasonlessness. Forever lost in the nothingness, sinking deeper for all of eternity into the sorrows and grudges you could not let go of.

You hated yourself. You hated your life.

Now. You burn. You burn in the hatred of God.

And what was the point of all of that?

The point is, there is no point unless you truely want to find the answer. But what is the question? What do you think?

Damn you to hell, America. And take your money with you.