I fear not the day
I will cease to exist
For I know, that day,
You will think about me
Once, or twice.

What scares me most
Is the day
I will exist everywhere,
But in your
Heart and mind.

Existence, consciousness ..

who are we and what do we do ..
A puff out .. a drag of cold air, racing .. racing .. head full of existential thoughts  . ..
Living, a wine glass .. a shot of warmth down my throat  . . Emotions these running flow of consciousness .. why do I think it all ?

Lying, in the dark .. an athem of sort, in silence reforms .. ideas and lack of them .. and thoughts, a void is born !

Internalising emotions .. finding my thoughts so alive in this darkness  ..
Hurriedly may I pass away to a lack of form ..

Insanity .. beckons me .. and what more can I do but nod .. meaning, I seek meaning. And not an iota of cognition is ever got.

Tired, I am tired of life as I know it, the bones ache, the thoughts become nonsensical and we deliver as we are meant to .. not very sure, not very sound .. in the air . . drifting slowly, and surely .. towards an end.

What is this eternal rack of hell that we are accustomed to... What is this longing for something that has passed us far by .. who am I even, floating aimless .. who are we, under our skin tight hides.

Disaster in the waiting, a last beacon calls to the inward eye .. and I see, albeit shrouded in dark .. nothing. Alas, no meaning.. an absurd, surreal delusion called Life.

I have always felt so small ..
A ignoble blob of mass produced ****
An unstriking felt of ignoreable mass
And a unloving yet existing demonicon

What is this being that within me resides
This parenchymatous growth of emotions
This feeling, perceiving but never believing
Mass of substance that I am, that I may be
Or may be not.

Just a small nothingness of some being
Incapable of making it out intoto

Small, meek, not dangerous piece of nothing.

What shall it matter if I lose my form?

What shall it matter if I lose myself ?

Death, disintegration, entropy !!

Whichever word may you give it,
nothing does ever matter in the end
nothing ever comes right off it ..

Nothing, and then black.

Pitch. Dark. Bleakness.

i had missed too many sunsets hurting in silence. to this day, the sky is in a graying shade of blue. to this day, it is mournful and decaying over me — or inside me, i do not know. i had lost count of the months i shunned the sunsets and headed straight — disgracefully, to the arms of the dusk. besides, falling apart looked harsher, and messier, and more vivid in the light. and so i had missed too many sunsets; this too, is becoming a wound.

i wish i were kinder to myself.

i wish i could forgive myself.

Another day
trudging a
blistered shitscape
shuffling a
burning hellscape
tripping a
melted fuckscape

Mars or
the 40
there is
no escape
I need
that pay