Whilst many people may come to fear the idea or even the reality of their mortality. Yes, many people fear death. And for those that don't fear death, they fear for the things and the loved ones they leave behind, that it may fall into the torment of decay without them being around. But I tell you, I do not fear death, and I do not fear for the things I leave behind...But I fear for the things I leave unsaid, for the dreams that I never lived, and for the nothingness I leave behind... No, I don't fear death. What I fear happens everyday, sometimes many times a day...What I fear is dying.
I fear the little deaths each day, and the slowly dying and decay. The parts of me I've had to bury, and the sacrifices for each day. I mourn the loss of the innocence in child-like fun, and for the six-foot trenches that memory had made. The wilting of compassion that once blossomed for each spring of appreciation, and the nonchalant lending of a hand.
I dread the gravestones that stood in my way, reminding me of cherished passions. The stone-cold stark remarks of their bitter and unwelcome engravings, echoing the miseries of my lives long ago laid down to rest.
I curse the miscarriages of my dreams, my passionate achievements which could have soared to greatness. Like tumours, already dead parts of me, forced to be extracted and cut from my life.
But most of all, much worse than the long-drawn tragedy of dying, I fear the four walls of a glorified cage, like a tomb built for the living who are placed there slowly to die. For no matter how big or how small, what manner of material make up it misshapen bars, or the luxury of it's habitat...A cage is still a cage, and just another word for a coffin. No, I do not fear death, I fear the pieces and stages of my life...slowly...dying.
I fear the little deaths each day, and the slowly dying and decay. The parts of me I've had to bury, and the sacrifices for each day. I mourn the loss of the innocence in child-like fun, and for the six-foot trenches that memory had made. The wilting of compassion that once blossomed for each spring of appreciation, and the nonchalant lending of a hand.
I dread the gravestones that stood in my way, reminding me of cherished passions. The stone-cold stark remarks of their bitter and unwelcome engravings, echoing the miseries of my lives long ago laid down to rest.
I curse the miscarriages of my dreams, my passionate achievements which could have soared to greatness. Like tumours, already dead parts of me, forced to be extracted and cut from my life.
But most of all, much worse than the long-drawn tragedy of dying, I fear the four walls of a glorified cage, like a tomb built for the living who are placed there slowly to die. For no matter how big or how small, what manner of material make up it misshapen bars, or the luxury of it's habitat...A cage is still a cage, and just another word for a coffin. No, I do not fear death, I fear the pieces and stages of my life...slowly...dying.
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