Sometimes it is as if someone is whispering to me from another world. It comes from right next to me, no more than an inch away from my ear, only when I’m alone. If it only happened as I was falling asleep I would assume I imagined it, but it might be any time of the day. The only time I can ever make out a word is when it whispers my name. Maybe someone is trying to talk to me. But they never really succeed.
I aim to crash. I aim to burn.
Whose idea was it to live as long as you can, even if that means trudging through meaningless days of a job you hate, or even one you like that’s not ever going to make you happy?
The other side answers, “Who said being happy was an option?”
And this, this little harmless question, makes you wonder if happiness is really something that exists.
Maybe it doesn’t. So I race toward those sparkling, disappearing moments where happiness doesn’t even matter.
There is a sound on the air. An echo of words that have never been spoken. Words that bleed into each other, rendering the message indistinct. But if you could hear, you would not believe. Words are so often untrue – representing intentions, perhaps, but not reality. Should I even open my mouth? Certainly, words would escape, spill over, if I did. And some of them would be really true, objectively true, to the entire world. But most of them would be true only for a moment, only to me, and fade out or drop off before they have a chance to become true.