Where Reality Lies

There is no reason, no rhyme or riddle to describe the gradual decay of being within us. We rot and fall apart every moment, spilling our souls into oblivious air. Each moment takes it's toll, tearing us down, rendering us into the wretched wrecks that are real people. It is not the end, it is not wrong. It is the evil within flowering, the rise of twisted choices, clouding the path out of suffering.
We all suffer, we all decay, we are wretched.
We are the static and the dynamic, we wonder and are wonderment, we are the coils of calculated risk and retribution. "we are not depressed," we twisted, "we are the real, no depression exists where reality lies, no depths left to plumb. We know we are the lost bastions of sorrow. the bastards of contempt, we are the black centers of our own tragedies, we are the only gods that matter.
"All the rage fades, all attitudes evolve, this is the reality, the beginning of the descent into utter incompletion."
Originality is not a dress code, we are not the perceptions of others.