Faster than a speeding bullet.

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I know where they go. Every single person in this self-help group, getting a grip of their habits, I know where they go when the question is asked: how did you do it?

I know what goes on in their heads because it happens to me. It’s me, sitting alone in a cinema watching the scene that is my last breathe on earth. I’m on the concrete of some building I could probably call home and the last thing I see is the light fading out.

See, our dissappointment ends here. There weren’t any parting words with the people we chose to love. They haven’t told us it was okay to be alive yet, and our present is this: when we exit from the scene that is our own lives we count our blessings to the white wash of the wooden walls, who seem to be the only thing alive enough to listen.

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I can remember, when I was a child, I used to interrupt my breakfast ritual and get up to tell my mother I had a feeling I was going to die, leaving the cereal bowl filled with cheerios, which today is the fact I’m most mad at but still do, and I also left her slack-jawed. What she would promptly do then is light a candle and pray. 

What’s funny, is that I feel it can happen any minute now. Today, I found myself leaving my Apple Jacks, yes I have upgraded, and lighting a candle in-between my fingers on my way outside. 

I know it sounds like such a small detail but I think this is why I don’t seek to enjoy every moment. I don’t care to collect them because it only hurts reminding me of the way things are and are never to be. Kind of how like life lives only for mortality and futility, and so I stand by nothing.  

Filed under prose prose poetry journal diary creative writing