story eggs

(null)

I sit on a warm bench, in the centre. Sunlight filters through the tinted windows on the roof, creating a mosaic against the sky, spreading patterns over the walls.

People fill the space around me, people that I don't know, people that are behind a veil to me. People living their lives, deciding which way to go.

And all of a sudden, I feel alone.

In a world of people, I am but a plain and singular stick figure, of no consequence or influence, of no importance or notability, and though I can contribute my part to society, my hypothetical legacy is not mine to ultimately control, it isn't up to me what people do with my memory if I'm gone, in a flash of seconds, from a heart attack or a car out of control. But there won't be a memory to remember because I don't even have a legacy.

People come and go so quickly. Things slip out of memory so easily. The only stable bond is family and yet family is just as fragile, because something so solid feels so much worse when it finally stops existing.

I have to admit, I feel a bit raw. I'd probably love and hate being an immortal. So many things to do, with endless time, but so much to lose. Ugh.

I look up from the rubbery floor. A large television screen consisting of nine smaller screens silently broadcasts the news, whether people in the room pay attention to it or not. Some people will fix themselves on to the news, and some won't.

And I think I get it.

Everything I've anticipated having or losing in the future hasn't happened. I could be satisfied with what I have now, and do what I can, whether people care about it or not.

That sounds okay to me.

I stand. It'll be Easter soon, and I'm hungry, so I'm going to buy hot cross buns.

author's note: tfw it takes u an hour to write a 320 word existential crisis drabble smh