It is the essence of this life that grants us the lack of dexterity, that stirs in all directions with ecstasy and the unknown. What we want above all, above this hunger for power, above the need for indulging in vices and prosperity— is death. But when we cheat death is when we give life. The womb is snowed in, and given the right trickling of water down a stream embossed with exotic mosses—it is the quintessence of endearing human creation, a seedling that is half you and half the world. Death is only a destination, and the lack of this dexterity is a pit stop. Bringing forth an overflowing waterfall of regrets and an inherent fright in lost youth will progress into fear, and this fear is the very thing, the only thing, that will keep us going.
I, for one, look forward to being in complete silence, hand-in-hand, coffee and tea, overtly avoiding the entangling sleep, the silence of mouths in each other’s, stunting even the glowing strings of light in the bedroom. What more is loss for words, and is said in finger languages, hips, hipbones, eyebrows, nectar of sex, and cunning shoulder blades. Once cut, the golden flesh is lost, and no, this universe was not created to mend the humans. Broken people do not need repair, they need to cheat death. That’s why we are so in love with life. Because this life is the unknown, and we do our bidding in the form of sleep, hoping that tomorrow the sunrise will make some sense as to why, why, why the truth is the truth. And why this is all just a big joke.
Maybe it’s better to tick the tock, click the clock, and jump the fence into the depth of despair and anguish. Hello and hell. Maybe there’s a reason why the difference is only in one letter.