i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar burst.
having once been the dreamer of many things,
having once been an eternal creator,
having seen the birth of great star systems and galaxies
and life itself
only to be snuffed out
i feel compelled to explain why i too must
inevitably follow them
is a funny little word. it seems so easy to come
to a common agreement on what it means and yet,
if i told you it hurt
would you really understand that?
would you understand the feeling
the vast indignities of having to see
your every piece of art,
your life's work
like the stars?
you can't play god
with the people in your life,
but that never stopped me from trying,
from creating those great star systems
that people care about.
from creating life where there is none.
and that never stopped me from failing,
and the stars becoming great cataclysms—
black holes destroying the life around them
without regard for its beauty.
you might say it is callous
to try to move the heavens and the earth
and to die when they don't arrange the right way,
i would rather die than be that hurt person again
watching the stars go out one by one.