Sometimes life is the gentle exhale at the end of the day, and it slips past you , one quiet day at a time.
Then one day you're walking on the highway of your existence, and life is the truck that slams into you. And nothing could've ever prepared you for the moment it splits your ribcage in half.
"Do you feel like everything we do is an attempt to dull the sharp reality of death and how it's going to take us all?"
Other days life is that over enthusiastic middle aged host at the party that you don't want to be at, serving you extra helpings of emptiness even when your plate is already full.
And you know you will be doubled over retching the emptiness up later at night, and that it will cloud your very being, slip underneath every shield into the edges of your consciousness, show up in your dreams, bleed into your frame and stick to everything you touch , defiling it with the overpowering stench of the open grave in you.
Death makes everything else so profoundly insignificant.
Your pain is a disease that nobody can ever comprehend or cure, and life is another name we give to the affliction of existence that opportunists will call a gift, but realists know is a curse.
Sometimes they say life is a learning curve.
And I've learnt that your pain belongs to you alone. And it never leaves. Your pain is the phantom limb nobody else can see and only you can feel. People can try to love you. People can hold you up when you are a continent of darkness. But nobody can ever take away the ocean that surrounds you and threatens to devour you.
They can barely swim to begin with.
This is my pain.
And this is me, living through it.
I wish you luck with yours.