Why long for a life of eighty summers?
When did existing become a synonym for immortality?
Why fear dying
when you haven’t even lived?
What’s the point of endless hospital beds,
stacked-up bills,
a catalogue of surgeries
stitched together
just to not die?
Do you really think death
will erase a relevance
that life never gifted you?
To think you matter —
that’s the delusion.
You’re, at best,
a singular comma
lost in translation —
wedged between a hundred thousand words
across hundreds of pages
that only found meaning
in the death of forests
and the silence of trees.
Your refusal to die
doesn’t make your half-lived life
any more complete.
Your legacy is a lie.
Your fear of vanishing —
the only truth.
You gave up on living
because you were too busy rehearsing
the opinions of people
who never approved of your existence.
Are you scared
they’ll care less once you’re gone?
What’s less than nothing?
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