“Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you — smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering — Come and find out”—Joseph Conrad
To those who would impart honesty upon me, your existence makes mine feel ease. We have had our occurrences, we have had our stories play out as fate may, we are as we are.
To the one who carries my burden as one may carry a feather I carry your’s with the same magnitude, not faltering under promises made an era ago, aloof as we are obnoxious, acting in stealth as we would preform.
Tobacco secrets and liquor lies cause me to have a reverie of freedom, one that I do not enjoy often, I presence I have felt before, but not as I am now. I am eternal as I am finite, my memory only exists as far my secrets have laid roots; those without an attachment will die with me, as they should.
This world, the one we live in, not physically, but collectively and emotionally, will die within a century, the earth may exist but our world will fail under evolution, the advancement of popular opinion, not progress. I will leave it has I have entered, anonymous.
Death must be personal. For one to truly find freedom one must die a solitary death; not to say one must be alone but they must feel alone. As dismal as the idea may appear one must die as themselves, to leave the earth with one more molecule to work with, if they even have had a small effect it will ring throughout eternity as a wave with no crest, a tsunami with no shore to crash. And they must die as themselves, gone are the facades and masks of niceties respected only to avoid uncomfortable honesty.