Thoughts of my little voice

The little voice, the slightly evil one, is speaking.
Though it’s late there’s still time. And it’s better to leave wondering about how great the future could have been, than to leave bitter about how terrible the past was.


The little voice is a young man now, and I don’t know if I can beat him in his prime and in my disciplined apathy.
I used to be a better debater. My most sensible argument was that difficulty is the price of greatness. Suffer now to rest later, and it’s better to have the last laugh.

But the voice is telling me a different narrative.
A man eating pebbles, and saving the cake he has for the end of the year. He wanted to earn the cake and be deserving of it. By the time he earned it, his stomach was so hardened; it craved nothing but pebbles. The cake, it was rotten and filled with bugs by then.

The plug is pulled on those who can’t experience life, but what about those who experience the worst of life?
No, they must live to preserve others. To give happiness, something they don’t have, to those who have hope. They spend the rest of their existence like that, mere objects.
The plug isn’t pulled when the patient is ready to die, but when the decision-maker feels less bothered by it.

The brave ones are in a better place, the cowardly keep waiting for something unknown at a time unknown.

If I die a miserable bitter old man, heaven will have to exist just before I die.

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Weaker moments

Maybe only out of ignorance would a human detest a perfect being and his perfect plan.

Let us depart from my reproach and your ambiguous hints. Let us discuss and decide, and I hope to replace my ignorance with unshaken confidence. Take my weakness as a bargaining advantage, as I’m desperately looking to negotiate.

I will never understand you, until I understand natural disasters and unearned punishments. Because unless you assure me that my misery would not be just another natural disaster, I have no faith in your goodness and no respect for your twisted plan.

If I died either out of misery, or as a result of a natural disaster, both scenarios would fit perfectly with your perfect plan.

I reach the same conclusion in your presence and your absence. But in my weaker moments, I look to the sky and I pray.

Please, let your mercy come as a natural disaster this instant. Bury me in your flood. Cleanse the world of me. Cleanse my memory of the knowledge that I once was.

Mountains live forever

He thought it was ironic that the bed where he dies is white, even though death is the absence of life, the absence of light.

He felt it would be unfortunate to not be awaken by sunlight anymore, to not hear the irregular sounds of rainfall, to not feel the warmth of fire in a cold night, and he wondered if he should expect something, if he should think that he would come to be again. It seemed possible, and many things seem possible.

He wished he did not have to wait. He wished that he did not have to show to himself and everyone else that he has accepted it. He wished that he did not have to say and hear the same phrases as if repetition made them any truer. It felt very compulsory, more compulsory than death itself.

He saw in the mirror his history. Every scar a story, and every wrinkle a condensation of lively years. Yet, he couldn’t feel satisfied despite his great attempts. He would have fought for one more second of living. He had “why’s”, “but’s”, and pleads, but he eventually reached a state of calm helplessness. To whom does he plead and by what right should he live one more second?

He thought of how many people have died since the beginning of time. He further thought of people that have died just that day. He tried to accept that his death is just something that happens all the time and has happened all the time. Wasn’t his whole life repetitive? How many people before him lay on their beds awaiting death and thinking? Every word that he has spoken, every thought, every action, every thing: haven’t they all existed before him in order for him to use them? How silly, he thought, would it be to say that any of his life has never been lived by any other human.

He leaned to a decoration plant adjacent to his bed, pulled it from its roots, and put it next to him on his white bed:  “if I can’t live anymore, why should you?”

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