The world moves on as if there's nothing to move on from. Perhaps there isn't to begin with. We've never been too good at accepting the truth. The clacking shoes, the same sun rises and falls, every street turns at their same old bends. Screeching tires, the birds, babbles of the world so muddled and never still. If there is one thing I'm happy for, it is this: it didn't end with me.
When I was young, my mother sang to me that we turn into flowers when we die. I'm not sure how that holds up to the ages. And upon looking at the overgrown hedges that lay stretching out with stray branches like limbs of a starving prisoner, it reminds me that maybe we're only as good as the dirt they root upon.
Caring about someone is easier when they’re dead. You'd only have to say a few words, put that sad look on your face, and perhaps shed some token tears for extra points. I am dead, therefore caring about me is easy.
The dead have built a world around us. Isn't it strange, how pages of a book, or the oil that they fill their cars used to be a part of something that breathed. The coal, sugar, desserts. Your bones are made of someone else's. Death lives in us, and death rooted itself within us in its many forms. The clipping of your fingernails, the hair that you cut, the microscopic parts that were independently birthed and culled for countless times as the story of their lives turned unending within your veins for you to live on. We walk upon the corpses that built the world and believe ourselves to be everlasting.
The livings have found an enemy that cannot be defeated, so they worshiped it instead. Death does not give any meaning to the dead as much as the livings tried to take credit upon themselves. And out of the inevitability of the end that comes, they have spun and placed upon the altar a newfound ominous glory. Has there been a world where death is but an option, the meaning of life, I wonder, how altered may it be?
Where would it take me?
I will never know
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