My Death Scene

How long have I been here? How many more empty spaces to fill? What if the bleeding starts again and I will end up immobile? If things happened with reasons, I sure want a valid one. Why some suffered in pain? Why some opted for an end? What’s out there that’s lacking here? I think I should not ask same questions again. Nobody knows the answers, anyway. Not even Einstein. But should I leave them unrequited? Isn’t that embracing injustice? Stop!

How long have I been trapped here? I looked around the yellow walls, they are frustratingly monotonous, strangely hazy and, believe it or not, a mammoth source of stress. I was a prisoner of my own ecstasy. I listened to the loud music. Even Kelly Clarkson’s Sober can’t save me. In this enormous expanse of perplexed state of affairs, I can only hope that, like in The Matrix, somebody will notify me to follow the white rabbit so I could get a dose of reality. Surely, this whole shit is an affirmation of resistance.

I looked down the sheets and they’re just beyond uninteresting. This whole thing scares the hell out of me. But weren’t they the small things I dreamed before? I speculate that life mysteriously goes like that. It is a circle. Or a tall mountain, I don’t really know. Finally getting that something you aspired before doesn’t mean the end of your existence. You will always feel like plotting a bigger target. Or feel that you have to reach the summit only to discover that it ain’t the peak yet. But why hurry when patience, as they say, is a virtue? Because life is short, isn’t it?

How long have I been blabbing here? Is my download finish yet? I wish I have the fastest connection. But did I not just talk about patience? Well, I just can’t linger forever to watch Pierre Fitch. Life is short.