Life is a bitch — and death is a cold-hearted bastard.
As soon as we take our first breath of life, we enter into a covenant with death — to someday, take our last.
How many cycles around the sun will you and I take? How many is enough? Twenty six? One? A hundred?
I don’t subscribe to wilful ignorance. There is no denial here, about the demise of a life. But I refuse to live like I’m going to die tomorrow, no — fuck that. I want to live like I really want to live.
“Life loves the liver of it.” — Maya Angelou
Death provides the sense of urgency required, to truly live a life.
You took twenty six rides into tomorrow around the sun, as I stood in the background rooting for you — quietly cheering you on.
Let the Universe conspire, somehow — allow me to take at least another twenty six rides around the sun for you.
Life is finite, death is infinite — an everlasting sinking place.
That much, I know is true.
Still, I can’t believe I am tasked to out live you — a fallen son.
This here, is my spilled composition of broken.