When I was four years old I didn't know what death was. I used to cut earthworms in half, just for fun. And even after they were chopped like slices of salami, they would still squirm around and I thought this was because they lived forever. My schoolteacher told me it was because they had eight hearts, but even if they survived my slaughter, they would eventually die because that's nature's way.
When I was eight years old it dawned on me that the worms are no different from us. They live and eat and do their best to survive, and one day they get snatched by a bird or a disease and they turn into mush. A bird will eat me up one day, too. I, at age eight, became terrified of eternal darkness.
When I was ten years old I attended a Catholic school where religion was a mandatory subject. My schoolteacher told me that when you die, you go to heaven, where you are happy and safe for all eternity. I was so excited by this idea that I wrote prayers down so that I could memorize them and impress other angels when I arrived in heaven.
But as my naivety of childhood wore off, I realized that the clouds held nothing but evaporated rain water. I met many different people. Atheists told me that there is no way a god could exist. Existentialists said that only we are responsible for our destinies. Anthropologists told me that humans are nothing but complex apes, and we're just a branch on a cladogram, a pinprick on a massive geological scale. Once again, I became terrified of eternal darkness.
I still don't know what death is; I don't think anyone knows.
I consciously step back from the anguish, the uncertainty, the fear.
I listen to the sparrows. I breathe.
I laugh until tears gush from my eyes.
I cry until my tear drops glue my eyelids together.
I hold a handful of snow in my palms.
I feel hot shower water trickle down my back.
I blush at the warmth of your hand on mine.
I eat a bucket of chicken wings and celery sticks.
I yawn in a lecture a little too loud.
I spend the entire evening scrolling through a forum.
I fall asleep with my headphones on.
See, it doesn't take much,
To make you forget about eternal darkness.
When I was eight years old it dawned on me that the worms are no different from us. They live and eat and do their best to survive, and one day they get snatched by a bird or a disease and they turn into mush. A bird will eat me up one day, too. I, at age eight, became terrified of eternal darkness.
When I was ten years old I attended a Catholic school where religion was a mandatory subject. My schoolteacher told me that when you die, you go to heaven, where you are happy and safe for all eternity. I was so excited by this idea that I wrote prayers down so that I could memorize them and impress other angels when I arrived in heaven.
But as my naivety of childhood wore off, I realized that the clouds held nothing but evaporated rain water. I met many different people. Atheists told me that there is no way a god could exist. Existentialists said that only we are responsible for our destinies. Anthropologists told me that humans are nothing but complex apes, and we're just a branch on a cladogram, a pinprick on a massive geological scale. Once again, I became terrified of eternal darkness.
I still don't know what death is; I don't think anyone knows.
I consciously step back from the anguish, the uncertainty, the fear.
I listen to the sparrows. I breathe.
I laugh until tears gush from my eyes.
I cry until my tear drops glue my eyelids together.
I hold a handful of snow in my palms.
I feel hot shower water trickle down my back.
I blush at the warmth of your hand on mine.
I eat a bucket of chicken wings and celery sticks.
I yawn in a lecture a little too loud.
I spend the entire evening scrolling through a forum.
I fall asleep with my headphones on.
See, it doesn't take much,
To make you forget about eternal darkness.
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