Is everyone my age doomed to selfish death?
Held down by the immaterial?
Is everyone my age doomed to selfish death in all their everything?
My sense of purpose has been dulled by the taunting of ghosts that visit my head.
I need peace in silence, comfort in stillness.
It’s insignificant, but I’ll remember how I was reborn among the bright flashes and screaming.
I’ve never known the delicate platitudes of life not trapped in, or maybe tethered to, the warm embrace of indoor spaces.
When I finally die in a quiet bed, I think it’s too much to ask, but I want to feel whole when the dream ends.
And when it finally does end, I will not go quietly.
I will set out on my own never to return.
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