This Life

There is a stink of boredom, a premonition of decay. Body disintegrating, you fall often, but you are by now used to the process. After all, we will all be ashes. The smile I borrowed from the sun will be returned to its home. Same with the twinkle in my eyes, back to the night sky. The wind will be the song of my homecoming. When it is cold, it will be sad. A warm one will be energising, even agonising.

Either way, you will sense my presence. Though you will not know my name and I will not know yours. I will wrap myself around your body as you will wrap around mine. In these moments, we will exchange each other warmth or cold - stories we tell each other's body. And there will be no difference between you and me. 

So I laid in bed last night, awakened more than ever, about the end of my life, in which, I would have lost all consciousness of my identity, my existence, not to mention, this world. It is pointless, isn't it, this life. The pains, the doubts. Why do people still live, when they always have the choice of ending it once and for all? What has society taught them to stay alive? Or is it the ego? The "this world can't do without me" symptom that I mentioned before? Now, it must be a pathetic life where one can't even have enough courage to end it all. On the other hand, it takes courage to live, doesn't it? To keep going despite the odds, despite the meaninglessness of it all. I almost convinced myself there. So is life worth having? The question is still suspended in the air. Perhaps I will have a definite, lucid answer at the tail end of this life. And perhaps that will be what is keeping me going, like it does right in the dark.