I often think of how it would be to die.
Morbid, yes.
But the concept of letting it all go,
Peacefully adrift in nothing,
Forevermore asleep.
The tranquil acceptance in sleep
Is truly the greatest gift
To be experienced only when not fully awake.
The one thing the modern world has so little of
Is that time to do nothing, outside of sleep.
I childishly wish for the calm embrace of slumber,
Less pain,
More memories surfacing of gentle snowflakes on my tongue,
And less memories of factory dust encrusting my fingernails like the noxious poisons of city-stained air
I raggedly breathe in.
I know,
That to exhale is to absorb even more of the burden in the air,
To acknowledge the pains no one wishes to take upon themselves,
But I must do it.
My contractual agreement in remaining alive is to,
By living,
Survive, and
Destroy to survive. Often, as most do, I destroy with disregard.
This should not matter to me. But it does,
Because I observe how
The crudity of this destruction coalesces into chaotic vortexes of color and screams;
The hands reach out only to be sucked back in.
I am there, too.
And I am nothing more than another depraved beggar.
So what does that make me,
But a lone star among millions of others dying
In a galaxy fueled by forces
Known before man?
