Hey, life… what are you, really?
People describe you in a thousand ways. To some, you’re everything; to others, nothing.
You’re a person, an animal, an object.
But always, always, they see you as something valuable. Something for which they’d give—or do—anything.
Oh, dear life… I find it curious how they cling to you.
Even in their worst moments, you’ll see them crawling after you, digging their nails into your dresses, which are now nothing more than rags.
Why do they long for you so much, life? Why do they cherish you so?
They don’t mind degrading themselves to the lowest level just to stay by your side.
Even if you despise them, even if you throw them to the ground, even if you scream at them that they’re nothing, they keep going.
Determined. Clinging.
Like a beggar following his executioner, hoping you’ll be merciful, that you’ll offer them a shoulder to lean on.
And then… in the deepest darkness… there I am.
Most call me “death.” Others call me “the void.”
But after naming me, silence always follows.
I am the monster under the beds that children fear.
But no child sleeps in that bed. Humans sleep there, dreaming of you.
I don’t understand them.
I am the rest their battered legs have longed for.
And yet, they’d rather walk on the needles you drop on the floor.
Will there come a day when they look down at the floor and, through their tears, say, “I’m tired”?
On that day, when they can’t take it anymore, I’ll be there.
Waiting. Offering relief.
And as I whisper in their ear, “Rest, there’s no more pain,” I’ll give them one last hug.
But not just any hug. An eternal hug.