Struggle

Much longer there are doubts I shall remain to this plane, for I have grown tired of constant struggle. Emptiness prevails, such that only violence curtails. What I have seen in life has filled me with much joy, but now I look upon it with eyes devoid of such care as once my youth did bear.

I was forsaken by love, and rightly so, the month my brother died. His death in vain, unnecessary, within it the pain of unhappy endings.

She has since moved on to blossom and grow, yet I have been left as once I always was. Incomplete, what has gone and what might come separate from one another diminishing the urge to continue. More often than I must or should, I think how things may cease to be more. Simpler.

I wish it were not the case, for this world is abundant with wonder, yet how can the ones who have nothing continue, when those who have had everything gather more?

The damage irreparably done, these eyes have seen much that others could not fathom. And yet their burden is that of their bearer alone, for he who has nothing, further nothing is sown. All has grown wearisome to him for whom strife and struggle are as the parents never known.

The protest of this continued existence, in spite of all that befalls we, demands the question, “What even is the point in anything after all?”

On a side note; last night a few hours after arriving from a five day trip in Malaysia I drove 10 minutes to the second closest beach club to the gym. A couple of hours of being surrounded by rich cunts was enough for me to want to jump in the ocean – so I did. Much to my delight there was bioluminescence everywhere, little green lights of biological sparks erupting from every movement – on the horizon a storm lit the sky, and above, the star encrusted night looked down with the wisdom of incomprehensible Time. Moments like that make being worthwhile.

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