Maybe we're not afraid of death but our names plucked from the air, of the silence that surrounds a thing that just no longer there. For we never really know the lifespan of a single sound. How many years after a body stops, a name will stick around. Perhaps it stretches generations echoes one last time, then never again. Until the space it filed replaced by its unknown loss forever or maybe there's another way it lives after we fade, it's why we write our names on books we own and all we've ever made. It's a sliver of remembrance in a world prone to forget, the taste of who we were on the lips of one we've never met. The hope they'll stumble on the stories we have loved, worn down with age, that there they'll find what we had left, our name upon the cover page. And for just that fleeting moment it's as though we've beaten death. That in the whisper of those we have taken on more breath.
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Confessions of the teenage paradox
Random"Come on, sweetheart let's adore one another before there is no more of you and me" -Rumi In which a teenage drama queen who sugar coats her mental heath and is awake at ungodly house starts writing Born a beautiful disaster Into hea...
