I love dead people. They are quiet and you can always depend on them to wait for you in the same place. They never complain and with a little imagination they give extremely good advice having only your consciousness to guide them. They never have any issues and the beautiful thing about dead people that you don’t have to look them in the eyes when you tell them your deepest secrets or mistakes. They will never judge you unlike the living kind, they will always agree with you and with any kind of behavior that you expose around them; you have the freedom to be yourself. The dead have only one story, concise and organized, where you could never get lost in or get tired guessing what their next move would be.
I love to hate living humans. They are so easy to understand when they submit themselves as being complicated. They have only themselves to love above all and they don’t manage to do even that single thing. Humans are easy to judge, model, torment, pleasure, love, hate, hit, scream at or ignore but they are always hard to talk to. Humans are funny. They think they are this superior being who can rule and conquer all, but their souls don’t belong to them but to the organized, emptied of the complicated secrets and mistakes, story they leave behind. And then they become the dead.
But you know what? The dead could never kiss your forehead when you go to bed, the dead could never give you their shoulder to cry on. The dead will never hold your hand or make you mad. So maybe, just maybe the ones living are better that way and because of a twisted and unworthy world that we all have to share, they could in fact leave us a story worth telling.