◦ misery of the cold ground

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misery of the

cold ground

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𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

656

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𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬

#curatorreview

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🆆 :a: 🆁🅽🅸🅽🅶

following piece talks about death, if this is a topic you’re particularly sensitive about proceed with caution

What happens when we die? What is there waiting for us on the other side? Is there a place for us once our earthly life is finished, as if it was just another book, read and put away on the shelf to accompany other pieces covered in dust? The notorious questions that have been haunting human race for as long as we recall, yet never answered. People demand the answers, scream into their gods’ faces:

Why did you leave us here with no answers?! Why did you leave us to rot with doubt and fear?!

But they never respond either. Now let me ask you a question, do you really want to know? Do you understand the burden that weights on those clues. The questions you have been asking for centuries, they haven’t been answered for a reason. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, it is better for you to remain unaware of those sealed off mysteries?

If you insist upon your right to know, be my guest. Being here in the cold ground, it’s a constant battle. Battle between what I had been taught as I was alive and what I’ve learned since my life ended. Things we were told to cherish and fight for, focus on, they no longer hold any value. In the darkness of your surroundings, which is only the black void slipping its way into your soul (supposing we have one), you start to miss things the dearest to you and yet never acknowledged. Those you took for granted or didn’t even particularly enjoy.

You start missing the annoyance that you feeling when your bus wouldn’t arrive on time causing you to run late. You miss the churlish, older neighbour of yours, who despite seemingly disliking the whole universe, never left your “Good Morning” without a reply. You miss the smell of burned food as you and your friends tried to prepare a meal, and failed with the sound of laughter. You miss the dog living in the ading flat, which you’ve never seen but always heard it’s barking in the evenings. You miss the smell of cheap coffee that you would be hit with as soon as you stepped inside of the little café in your neighbourhood. You miss your daily, monotonous routine, doing the same thing over and over again. You miss doing anything.

And it’s all you’ll be left with for the future eternity. The art of missing. At first you’ll be waiting patiently for something to happen, just to soon realise there’s nothing coming. Where are the promised heavens, or even hell? At this point you would accept even the hell fire if it just meant something would finally happen. When will the Last Judgement come? Was it just a lie all along? Or did it already happen? You start to wonder “what if this is hell?”, payment for all the wrong you had done. But deep down you know it isn’t. In utter loneliness overwhelming you, you can feel the preposterous presence of billions of others just like you, suffering the same fate.

There’s nothing to look forward to, nothing to await for. There’s no point in being here. There’s just one thought that eventually appears in everyone’s mind, “I just want all of it to end”. But you cannot end the ending.

Just then, more questions shall come. Do they me? Does somebody leave flowers on my grave, at least from time to time? Will people me as the time es? Having experienced the answers to the questions brought up previously, you decide you don’t want to know. Some things are better left unsaid.

All of this slowly leads you to insanity, although, does it? To go insane is to lose your sanity, but you can’t lose something you don’t have. Because here you have nothing and nothing has you. Nothing is happening, and it’s not happening forever.

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Thank you for reading!

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