An Undead Dream Of The Unalive

Birth and death aren’t yours to decide —

though I’ve tried convincing myself otherwise.

Especially the latter.

I’ve flirted with endings,

danced with pills, razors, and ledges —

anything that made a persuasive point.

But here I am.

Alive? Undead?

Or just pacing purgatory in between.

Once upon a time,

what feels like lifetimes ago,

I had dreamy eyes

that thought life would be

a sun-drenched afternoon

with poetry in its palms

and purpose in its pockets.

Now my eyes are stoic.

They’ve seen enough to know:

dreams are for the dead

or the dying crowned with wishes.

When you’re born

to legacies etched in literature and legend,

and expectations hang like ancestral portraits —

you often wonder:

am I a blessing or a blasphemy?

Entitlement masquerades as tradition.

And life?

It shows up daily

with a notebook and questions:

“What have you done to prove you're worth the oxygen?”

Same query,

newer tongues.

But answers don’t evolve —

only the required proofs do.

Dimensions shift.

Destinations blur.

And every time I’ve been asked —

I’ve failed.

Failed families — blood and chosen.

Failed lovers — ephemeral and everlasting.

Failed even in silence —

and the spaces I smothered in noise.

But above all —

I’ve failed me.

No artefacts. No archives.

No memory carved into time. 

No single piece of evidence

that I ever belonged here.

So now,

as I stand

at the grave of my breathing corpse —

crowded by echoes,

yet achingly alone —

I wish my lungs would finally

stop debating with my brain,

and bury me with the argument.

As someone whose existence

drifted between too little and too much —

never just the right amount of enough —

this feels like the perfect time to be a passing thought.

Not an abstract that offered too little,

nor an obituary that spoke too much.

For once,

I would suffice

to just be enough.