Silverfish

Silver Palm

Cold, like the air.

It was a terrible feeling, if it was even really considered a feeling at all. The regret, loss, pain; it was something I'd never wish upon anyone.

Things were beginning to detach themselves from me, or rather, the other way around. Friends seemed all too far away, absconding off somewhere without me.

Perhaps this is what it felt like to die. A flash of dull orange and afterwards everything else is white. It's a bright, blinding tradition.

People glorify death, they make it their own because they are afraid.

I'm not afraid of what comes after–I'm afraid of the living, the loss.

The desperate temptation to fight against it.