I waffle between crippled and deceived. Each moment alive feels the crushing weight of its impending end. So too is life crippled by death. We forge ahead undaunted, resigned, willfully ignorant. Nothing but bandages to patch a terminal wound. How can I live without the hope to more life? What is this moment without the potential for more moments? Like a white string dipped in black ink, the shadow of an end creeps it's way up far past where it belongs. It stains life with its promise of nothingness. All that I aim for, the life I lust for, the moments I gorge myself on. Death, a motionless wraith, deflates and rots it, without lifting a finger. It is the small drain, emptying the pool. I struggle to fill water, it passively drains away. And all that I build it promises to one day erode, even the echoes, the memories, the wisps of what I once was. How then, am I to live? Chasing meaning? Planning ahead? For what but the eventual fade of whatever shines. With effort, ignoring can become second nature. Many times this is refuge from the unrelenting drench. But it is not confrontation. It is contentment I want. I fear only in reconciliation with finality can this come. I fear.
