humans are difficult creatures
existing between space time.
each living as the conscience of a minute sentient being.
most?
as walking carcasses waiting for rot.
for death.
we fear her
but only when she strikes close.
we know death is inevitable
yet still, we perceive her as an aberration.
i hope it's warm;
wherever it leads to.
why have i always been so terrified
of what walking carcasses thought of my being?
why do i care so much?
everyone will pass.
and eventually, earth will too.
what should remain of the petty arguments and the whisper of wars when the very remnants of "the great civilization" falls unto it's crippled old knees?
i wonder that quite often.
because time will not stop for the death of a transient rock
as the universe will not mourn for me.
-Mey
Note:
This is just what was running through my head while listening to the slowed piano version of Where Is My Mind by Maxence Cyrin. It's very beautiful.
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Excerpts Vol.1
RandomAn assortment of creative literature I've found myself writing in my confined space of 4 walls and a desk, all tucked away in this little nook. From poems to dramatics to entire chapters as though they were ripped out of a novel. Here are excerpts...
