Tangled between thoughts of death and fear

We create lines we don’t follow; just to tell ourselves we have something tangible. We are not afraid of death, but it’s the unknown that steers us inside. Just like the freshly spilled creativity on the wall, wasted upon the things we need or must do.

Story of my life.

You know what death is? You know what “scary” means? I can break it down to you, eager to make you understand the innermost fright.

Death is knowing I cannot touch you because your absence screams louder than your blood on my hands. Death is the loss of your “self”, slowly dripping down the edge of your lips in the form of ideas. The inevitable separation of body and soul – but does it sound melodramatic – and the few inches that keep us apart. So close yet so damn afar.

It only takes a breath to cross the distance, enter your void – it’s not yet a world – to warm up your heart. Stitch up the remnants of what seemed to be the eternal flame of a promising trip across the universe that was your life; too short. Too unfulfilling.

Scary is when I draw lines I don’t intend to follow, cancel and erase, erase and re-draw in the same old paper, clasped inside your fingers. Scary is when you are the only thing that keeps me going and the sole thing that holds me, pulls me back. The center of my universe and the end of my existence.

The fright of discovering the expendability or your “self”, the dependability of your so called “life”. The fright of not belonging to anyone but a picture on the wall. The fright of not recognizing you in your own past, not being a part of your present and/or future. But there seems to be no future.

We are stardust, after all.