Is it bad that I’ve acclimated to the speed at which life comes and goes? It’s as if seasons have lost their magic, with no surprise left to satisfy my eyes. What mercy does the privilege of life bring if it is nothing but a ferryman to death. I grow ever conscious about whether or not this is the reward or punishment. Perhaps the body’s job is to decay, but I signed up to live life to the fullest and yet…
I cannot find the strength to do so, even in my genuine hours of bliss.
It is unfair of me to be jaded about something that is so incredibly precious. What does dejection solve? Then again, is there a problem in the first place? My dreams have become cries for help. I am yearning to feel the sun kiss my skin, wrapping the moment in the scent of morning dew. However, such a desire is too close to reality, yet too far from expectation. What grand acts of pain must I partake in for this pilgrimage to be worth the expense?
Someone has placed me on the driver’s seat and fastened my seatbelts. I do not know how to drive.
I have repaired my crystalline structure to fit all the minutes of love and loss, so must I be carved out once more? I am deathly afraid that there is more to lose — that there will never be a “present moment”. I have failed time and time again to live in the moment. Everything tick forward signals another second claimed by the past. It rings in my ears — the little things move in frames, and I happen to count them against my better judgement.
What else could I possibly be missing?
I am grateful to be humbled by the incorporeal teachers, but I have lost my momentum. Passionate is nothing more than an overused adjective, but perhaps I am envious of people who can still light the wick in their eyes. How the calming effect of an orange glow can somehow radiate from someone’s self-presentation — I only have the presentation. There is no substance left.
It has all expired.
Leave your shoes and sympathies by the door. One day, I will adorn the craftsmanship of those who work at funerals. Perhaps I can give that moment in time both justice and catharsis. Perhaps people may seek refuge in the stories I leave behind — if they are ever found.
Don’t worry, all expenses will have been paid by then. I will make up for hours promised and never returned. I believe in a life after death — a life lived by many, until I truly die. When the time comes, do not look for me. Embody me as you look at the sky, wondering where everything goes at the end of time.
I would not ask for anything more.