May the Hell you find yourself in be of your own choosing.

Time is the enemy. Who you give it to and what they do with it. And even when you keep it to yourself. It flows endlessly into the unknown. I often found myself measuring it in a desperate attempt to keep it. To dilate it somehow. I built bridges to the islands of people that were no longer there.
In filled glasses with seconds, minutes, entire lifetimes. And I left them, forgotten, on the roofs of buildings. On sidewalks, on bars with sticky floors in countries where others still play with it in memories.
For a while, I had this mad idea that hourglasses might be the way to freeze time. That if I didn`t turn them upside down, somehow, time will go past me, without even noticing my frantic heartbeat. You see, we live in so much fear.
Each morning our eyes desperately look for fragments of youth in our ever changing faces. We drink water to get younger. We drink liquor to forget we`re not in what we thought it was the prime of our lives.
With each mile on the highways of our lives, we feel the concrete closer. We wish on fallen stars for a cat-like existence. For 9 chances to live one good life.
There are nights, in our drunken Armaggeddon from which we wake, in complete estrangement from ourselves.
The orange glow of mornings catches us in every corner of the world sometimes wide awake, sometimes with bloodshot eyes. And we dream, in our psychotic karmic drive, of gardens. Of swings. But we wake up, everyday, breathing in the lethargic air of factories that threaten to consume the sky itself.
We run. Some go for the long distance. Some go in circles.
On asphalt. On clouds. On highways of smoke and glass. At some point, we were all works of art that nobody bothered to curate.
Now, slowly falling into the sleep of decay, we tremble in our dreams. Our souls soar above forests, lakes and innumerable hills. They fly towards beaches, guided by chemtrails.
Our souls...
I believe souls travel in pairs to destinations from our memory. Recently, mine sat on the roof the parking lot overseeing Venice. There it imagined the end of the world by flooding.
It sat in Cardiff with another one, at the door of a darken pub. Drinking.
But somehow it always finds its way to the sea regardless of where my body rests.
Life, for what it is, or what we imagine it to be, goes by patiently. It might leave behind a myrriad of photographs. It might leave anger and bitterness. Or nothing at all.
But one thing is certain: Death is waiting somewhere along this road. Be sure not to leave this world thinking that there was so much you could have done.