Solitude

I can only envy this paper and pen— ripping the brevis thoughts from my rotting brain. This notebook— holding the only fragments of me that may survive two centuries from now. The only shout of mine that will echo longer than I ever could. My writing is the only thing breathing. My lungs will betray me. My memories will fade into the gray static of forgotten names. My experiences will slip like knives through soft fruit— brief, messy, meaningless. I am terrified not of dying, but of dissolving— of being just another body buried quietly, while the world turns without pause, birds still sing, the wind still moves through empty fields that will never know my name. I resent it all— this world that births us only to throw us back into the dark. Life itself feels cruel— a brief flame dancing on a wick meant to burn out. I curse the clock, the sun, the soil— every sacred law that denies me the right to endure. How dare the stars shine while I rot? Even the stars will fade. Even the heavens will crack and fold inward, swallowed by silence. And what cruelty is this— a universe cursed to exist just long enough to understand its own death? There will be no monument. No last line. Just silence. Just soil. Just a name etched in stone and swallowed by lichen and time. And yet these words— these trembling little things I spill onto paper— they might remain. Someone may find them a lifetime from now, and feel something I never got to. They will live when I do not. They will carry what I could not. And that… that ruins me. Because they are not afraid. They do not bleed. They do not forget. They do not cry for what they cannot hold. I would give anything to trade places— to press myself into the page, to be ink, to be still, to be read instead of remembered. Let me rot. Let me be nothing. But even as the stars die, my words will hold on a little longer. And still— I resent them. Because even they will one day fade, but today, they outlive me. And I hate them for it.