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What is the point in me if I am to only die at some point in the future?
I want someone tell me what life is.
Is it roaming an orange leafed park bundled up in your scarf, or is it breathing in the dust of old worn down furniture?
Is it singing in the rain and becoming soaked to the point your feet sputter in your shoes or is it remaining bedridden under newly washed yet dull comforters?
Is it accepting pie from a kind stranger in town, or is it losing your appetite to the same meals day after day?
Being restricted to one house forever without company, or is it meeting someone with a new look in their eyes?
Is it being given a time of perish? Waiting in the expectancy of the inevitable as you watch the color drain from your body?
Or...
Is it seeing new things in the world you hadn't before? Taking in different sights or fearing the unknown? Is it touching the skin of another's curves or weeping after their funeral?
Maybe...
It's more complicated than this..
Maybe it's more than mourning over loss, or slowly shriveling to nothing.
More than a kiss on the cheek, more than the passionate touch from someone of foreignity.
What if...
Life is something that fondles with your heart until it feels the need to pop? Or some unknown or forgotten feeling of unbuttoning someone else's shirt, maybe.
Maybe it's in those moments when your insides turn to gush, or when you lay floating atop a lake in just a knitted cardigan, watching clouds pass by.
Maybe it's the smoke of a bonfire burning at your feet or a bloody handkerchief you keep in your left pocket.
Or
Maybe it's being electrocuted every time your soul begins to pound.
Perhaps it's staring in terror at a whip that hangs on a coat rack beside the back door of your master's home.
Or taking care of his ill daughter while he's away.
Maybe it's glancing over at a lit cigar poking out of someone's mouth or a shock collar around their neck.
Or smiling despite the pain you've just been through or laughing regardless of the fit you'll have later.
I wonder if all life is is just waving at society through a dirty living room window, or stumbling in the same hardwood hallway you make attempt to venture through every rainy morning when everyone but the nurse is away.
I wonder if it's a million books that'd been read a thousand times beside your arm chair, or an oxygen tank still in use...
As I write this letter to you, my breathes quaking and my hands trembling, the artificial air being blown into my lungs as I watch hot tears drip down onto the page.... Skin pale and crawling...
I can only pray to the god I no longer believe in that it isn't so.
Sincerely yours
((Forgive me for the short first chapter))
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