I don’t like goodbyes. Goodbyes mean that what has come has gone, and what has lived has died. It means that the story has ended, and the book has closed. But I still have stories to tell. It cannot end when there is still more to come, when there’s still so much time!
…Time.
We only get so little. And yet there’s always so much. Like a river, it continues to flow even when the boat has crashed. Even after death has devoured the souls that sail.
“Death is inevitable,” they say. “In a way, it’s what gives life meaning.” But what meaning could the unavoidable hells give to this gift we’ve been given? If death is a part of life, then why is it so, excruciatinglypainful?!
It’s a mystery. One that neither I nor the world will ever understand.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the fun of it. The idea that we have so little time, and that we need to enjoy as much of it as we can. Because one day, it’ll be gone. In a cruel, twisted poetic irony, perhaps it is the ending that makes the story?
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