sombre

datura eulogies

11:23 AM — friday november 12th

the streets stink of something dying. 
it’s in the air, thick and sour, clinging to the buildings, the windows, the people who shuffle by with empty eyes. 
i feel it in my lungs, in my throat, this rot that seeps into everything, every breath, every thought. 
it wasn’t always like this. 
i think. 
i try to remember when the world felt clean, when the air didn’t burn, when people didn’t walk like they were dragging something heavy behind them, but the memory slips through my fingers like water. 
was it ever really different? 
or did i just not see it before? 

the lights flash from the signs, neon bright, promises of more, more, more, but it’s all hollow. 
you can feel it, if you stop and listen, if you stand still long enough, you can hear the emptiness. 
the hollow thud of footsteps on pavement, the muted hum of voices, talking but saying nothing. 
everything’s a transaction. 
what can you give me? 
what can i take from you? 
they smile, they shake hands, they make deals, but it’s all a game, a game played with broken pieces on a board that’s crumbling beneath their feet. 
no one wins. 
no one can win. 
but they keep playing, because they don’t know how to stop, don’t know how to see that it’s all just dust and ash in the end.

i look at them, the way they move, the way they speak, and i wonder if they feel it too, the slow decay of everything around us. 
but they don’t look, they don’t think, they just keep going, heads down, eyes glazed, as if that will save them from it. 
as if that will stop the rot from creeping into their bones, their hearts. 
i want to scream at them, to shake them, to tell them to stop, to look around, to see what’s happening, but i don’t. 
i know it won’t matter. 
they won’t hear me. 
they never hear anything except the sound of their own voices, their own wants, their own greed. 
the world is burning around them, and they’re too busy counting coins, stacking paper, building towers out of their own filth to notice the flames licking at their feet. 

and the worst part is— 
i’m no better. 
i sit here, watching them, hating them, but i’m part of it too, breathing the same poisoned air, living in the same crumbling city, walking the same broken streets. 
i try to tell myself i’m different, that i see what they don’t, but what does that change? 
nothing. 
i’m just as trapped, just as infected by the rot as they are. 
i can’t escape it. 
none of us can. 
we’re all sinking together, slowly, silently, and no one seems to care. 
maybe it’s easier that way. 
to let it happen. 
to let the decay take over, swallow everything, until there’s nothing left but dust and silence. 
maybe that’s what we deserve.