Every moment of my life

Perhaps We Should Leave's picture

It's a song I guess. I mean, the moments. The moments are like a song. The mind is like a wave? The song isn't ending. I'm not sure how to say that the world isn't ending, when it sometimes feels like it is. The world isn't what it used to be, is it? The song doesn't end, but the words do. The universe is the song, and the words are our lives, I suppose. I'm not really sure. Isn't it odd to think that maybe we aren't going to live forever? I'm not sure what to do with the knowledge that I'm not immortal. I want to be immortal. I'm so afraid of dying. It's like shooting a whale. Dying, I mean. A whale is so beautiful... And so mysterious. And then it's gone. Whales seem powerful to me. They seemlike they ought to be immortal... I see an image of a dead whale, beached. I'm not sure what to do with that... it's like my mind is trying so hard to reconcile this dead husk, this meat, and the immortal leviathan that I see in a living whale.... This is a dark time? The world isn't what it used to be. There used to be so much that we could see. Or was it that we couldn't? The world is smaller, now. The world is darker, now. Sometimes I wonder... Why did we do this thing? We've lost ourselves. Or did we lose everything else? The world is changing, with us. Are there gods that we've killed? The leviathans are dying. The world isn't what is was. Where are you, you reading this? Are you even there? I am writing to you, but I don't know who will read this or if anyone will read this at all. The time is past midnight... Where is the reader? When I cannot see you, do you still exist? When I do not know you, how can you be a real individual? It hurts to know that the world is dying with the stories. Or maybe it's the other way around. There are other worlds... and maybe other leviathans. The stories are hope. The stories are the only world I can escape to. The world is dying. The whales, too. The stories are there. But they keep bringing me back here to this dying place. I don't want to be in this dying place. I want to be where the world isn't dying and the killing will stop and the whales don't die and the world might live and maybe I will live forever and not die with everything else. There are beautiful things here, too, though. There are lots of things worth seeing... I'm just so afraid to die. I don't want to die. Sometimes I think I want all the beautiful and pleasurable things to happen now so I don't die before I experience them. I don't want to miss them. I don't want to die before I see everything and feel it. So many things to experience, and if I die or the world dies I will miss so much. I don't want to miss it. I don't want to lose that. Isn't it an odd day? We breathe. We breathe in one thing and out another. It's miraculous that we exist... It's perfectly logical, though. It all makes sense... why we're here, I mean. We're here because we're here. We are in a position to ask only because we already exist; we can ask only because we have the ability to ask. We have such a bizarre sentiment, that we must have a purpose because we have the ability to ask... We are here, so we must have been put here. How stupid. How foolish. How vain. We are here only through sheer chaotic coincidence; we have no purpose, no origin. The roar of the gods is nothing but the screams of our own fear. We're afraid of the idea that we came from nothing. We are nothing, but we're free... And I suppose that's frightening. Death... nothingness? Fear. Fear... That's all, really. Fear... that's all.


jeff's picture


The story of your life
You take her home
You drive all night to keep her warm
And time... is frozen

Anyway, when you think of where you were before your birth, does that memory frighten you? Death is that same place.

"You don't know you're beautiful." - Harry Styles

Perhaps We Should Leave's picture

Original Face?

Yeah, it's terrifying; oblivion is scary no matter what. More importantly, though, I don't actually remember writing this. I did drink a lot of gin, though.

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A man is defined not by his convictions, but by what he denies of himself.