It doesn’t seem like there’s much to work towards when all thats promised is a grave. Your name engraved on a stone sitting on a mound of dirt. And maybe if your lucky someone will stop by on their way to work, to settle some flowers into that dirt. But as time goes so will your ghost. the flowers never last and before you know it your loved ones pass, right on by, the site where you lye, and if you weren’t dead that would hurt enough to make you cry. But your soul doesn’t always remember that you died. I always thought about the end and it never really made much sense.
Nor does the time in-between that dash in the middle of those sacred dates. Its just a line but it goes a long way. What’s the point if were born to die and what’s the point if every night I try. It ends the same either way. a relentless emptiness, a pile of dead skin rotting off a collection of bones and that’s only if your lucky. It all depends how you go. Sometimes we don’t even get to leave behind that decaying mess, like I didn’t earn at least that but less. So how can you expect me to want to keep going, when all there is to live for is hopefully a story but there isn’t a happy ending no you cant have a happy ending so again why should I keep going.
I guess it would be less selfish if I decided to keep on with my time but even a selfless me would still wonder why there isn’t a better way to leave rather than to die, how harsh to just leave without any say, any warning or a reason, with all those clothes in the laundry and all those dishes to be dried and all those dates on the calender you marked with a time. How will I be able to tell them that I wont be able attend that date that was set, or that I love them and sorry that I left that mess of clothes on the floor and that cup of milk I poured. and if I could, you know I would, finish what I started.
