I used to believe in eternal life. By that, I thought I meant my soul would always be somewhere.
There would always be me.
But looking at it refracted, the spectrum of my lust for eternity has rose wavelengths for the dead past.
Everything is spiraling.
The whirlwind is sown. But the sowers are dead. And it is ours to reap.
I don’t know what I feel anymore.
I don’t know what I think anymore.
I don’t know what’s right or what’s wrong, or if those are even the right words to use.
I want to be chained to the rock of certainty and (self-)righteousness. Convinced of stability and eternity as the rock crumbles under the weight of the eons of my insatiable need of the inevitable death of the sun.
I want someone to tell me everything will be okay.
I want someone to admit that it won’t.
I hate that both are happening, and I still don’t feel better.
I hate that I still go to work like things are okay.
I hate that I can’t make myself do something else. Something I believe in.
I fear my nieces will choke on the atmosphere that is their inheritance and with their last, ragged breath I will look in their eyes and their gaze will curse me for my failures that have been my inheritance, in turn.
And the curse will be their forgiveness and acceptance
that somehow I couldn’t have done better.
I fear that what I deserve all the punishment and reward for my life will never be mine.
I fear that the question of what I deserve has no answer.