Thresholds.

Threshold. The beginning, middle, and middle.

At some point. 

There is a threshold.

 A point where you press a button. 

Darkness. 

The data stream flows out like sickness from your body. 

You watch every word you said, every heart you broke everything you ruined just... 

Go. 

You know no one else gets it. 

Words on a paper. 

On a screen. 

On the tongue. 

You loved once... 

On accident. 

It just stung in the end. 

Overrated feeling. 

Then you start over. 

Fill up the drive... 

Empty it out. 

When you find yourself at a funeral... 

No worldly possession... 

Only fear. You hit the button. 

Text a friend. 

Tweet. 

Call. 

Laugh, smile, stare, frown, and cry.

 Why even share your mind to her?

 You know what she will say. 

You have her down to a page in a book. 

Expecting anything more than the typical normalized answer. 

All you are is a sad Nihilist. 

One though. With purpose.

 Press the button. 

Watch the data flow. 

Mr. Mister. 

A title. 

Title; Noun.

 Noun a word with meaning and like data it just flows. 

And there you have our purpose. 

Or. 

At least the path to purpose. 

It is easy to destroy. 

But to forgive... 

To forgive is to truly transcend, to find the meaning. 

In the end all of the times you press the button. 

All the data that flows becomes obsolete and disappears. 

To destroy doesn't matter in the long run, neither does forgiveness but at least through forgiveness seeds are planted, corpses brought to life and when you...

 You are unable to press that button any more, those seeds you planted, those corpses you brought back can press their own button, unlimited data flow through the brains of society which is unless you destroy. 

The cosmos will die, but the data flow is forever. 

As a kid pressing is easy but it seems as you grow older into adult life and try to "become" part of society, you can't just press. 

There has to be a reason, always a reason. 

But that's with everything, in the interfile glow of adolescence you explore you create and you destroy, endless patterns brought on by a child who had no ideals no moral outcomes sought for. 

But as you grow older you start to ask the point, but what really is the point? 

To surpass perfection? 

To truly become remembered? 

To live in the hearts of those you cared for? 

What is the point of trying that hard in the long run? 

But getting caught up in the cacophonous catacombs of life. 

If you stop pressing the button do you stop existing? 

Do you just cease? Or does it mean that there is no meaning. 

Accepting death through finding yourself though the pits of self-made hell, and never pressing again. 

Just ceasing.