Should

What do you do on days when the borrowed time that you have left is a wasteland of insincerity? When the bloodied face of destruction comes riding in, what will remain to be destroyed? All that inhabits this desolation is the empty porcelain face of inhumanity, riding on the back of Nothing, galloping to Nowhere. I feel it. I should be offering my sacrificial arms to the clink of the ravenous rust. But I don’t. I should be rushing the rivers of Hades with the waves of my wailing anguish. But I don’t. What about anger? Should I be tearing down the masses and content myself to watching everything burn? Yes. But, alas, I don’t. You see, it is not the mere nothing that brings me here now. It is the emptiness. Yes, there is a distinctness between the two. Nothing gives the impression that there never was, nor ever will be, a single thing in existence. Emptiness gives the woeful experience of fulfillment, eaten from the forbidden fruit of life but cast to a death of vacancy, leaving one to writhe at the hands of memory.