The likes of you are not meant for day. It is you, your kind, that hinders the growth of all that is inexistence, leaches from the earth all it has to offer before dying a wasteful death. It is you – unable to live from one day to the next, to hope, and love, and cherish and rejoice in the gift of what we all have received. It is you that brings us all down to where you are, in your little hellhole, unable to move, lay down, rest, blink, breathe. It is you, clinging to miniscule projecting roots in the soil, pulling them down as you attempt to climb higher, climb to where the air is easier to breath in, the sun is easier to see and the rain does not drown you out.
You exist, motionless, breathless, frozen in a moment that never shatters. A moment. That is all you are, that is your life encapsulated. You exist in it, suffocating, slowly, silently as time creeps – a metronome in slow motion, giving rhythm to the beating. The tempo quickens but your heart is dead. Your soul sings off key to a chorus quivering down your bones, the only way to stop icicles forming within you.
Soon, this too shall stop.
You feel yourself begin to disintegrate, become nothing more than particles of nothingness – that which you were before you found yourself lost. And when the rain stops, and saprotrophic beings begin to nestle in your flesh, you realize it was not the moment to be shattered, but you.
