People die. And with that they leave behind an abyss. In one room, amongst sob and shock and stare and a sinking feeling looming large your world would have fallen apart. And nobody knows. Nobody ever can. The cynic smirks when they offer you words.
What are they thinking? Don't they know that moment words are just sounds, echoes of a redundant now, which simply glide above and around you, and never through you? That moment all you have passing through you is just a colossal barrenness, engulfing your blood pumping machine which resonates with the raucous white noise of a simple truth. People die.
Words never seem shallower. More crimson. I don't know what helps. I merely silently stand. Alongside.
I stand here and watch the people of this world:
All against one and one against all,
angry, arguing, plotting and scheming.
Then one day, suddenly, they die.
And each gets one plot of ground:
four feet wide, six feet long.
And so that they can scheme their way out of that plot,
They set the stone that immortalizes their name...
It hurts me. Death is sad but sadder is the fact that most people don't live at all….
Now poses the question, am I alive at all….coz I am already in an abyss...?
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