"My older brother received a call at two PM on a Thursday that his roommate from college and his best friend from high school overdosed and died last Wednesday night. My brother is twenty-five years old. He missed three days of work, sat at home in the dark and cried for the first time in six months.
This is not poetry.
My father is very, very sick. He sleeps for seven hours to build up a half hour of strength just so he can pick me up from school. He hasn't been well in over a year. And still, he prays every night, "Thank you, God, for making this happen to me, and not my children." I am swallowed in fear that soon enough, he will go to bed and never wake up.
This is not poetry.
There are thousands of people fighting cancer, and war, and death, just to have one more day in hopes that it will get better. And still, you people glorify sadness and long for your death because apparently life is too much of a burden.
Wake up, your ignorance is sickening.
Your life is thousands of times more beautiful than your death ever will be."
