It goes beginning to end. Past to present. To future... to death.
It’s an easy concept for some. People die, people live. But for others, it's harder. It's much harder.

So hear something now. Hear me. Because as much as someone might speak out. As much as someone might want to be heard, do we listen? Not all the time, so the answer is a "No" because we don't. We listen to what wants to be heard. And no one would want to hear about death.

You only believe what you see.

Here we are speaking of death. Something not many want to hear, but hear me now, because I too have something to say. I too want to speak out. I want to be the one heard, and I want to be the one listened to.

So here we go...


a day goes by- I learn from a question: what do we live for?

The answer might go on and on for someone, but only for SOMEONE who isn’t me. I see a future and that's all I saw. Because here and now wasn't enough. Here and now didn't mean anything anymore.
.so what do I live for? I live for the people who want me to live, in which I mean the people who can't bear to see my death. Now before that was my grandmother. But my grandma isn't here anymore. She died too. Next would be the kids I’ve been a babysitter for. It’s mostly these five kids that I look forward to. It's that and alone time. They are the light. They are the living. They are what could be... the future basically. Other than that there were friends that were the only ones I’ve told or spoke to. But that's over now. Anything they say won't be anything. Just like here and now isn't anything.



A year goes by- I understand: the reasons.

There are reasons to go just like there are reasons to live. There are reasons to die. It’s easy. They line up. The goods and the bad are in balance. They are equal, but it's my interpretation of them that matters. Which matters? The good or the bad? What affects me? What keeps me living and what makes me dead? Which one of them created me and made me who I am?


Another week goes by- I write: my heart out.

I do what I love. I write. And my heart spills over the pages. My pain, my glory. The words aren't enough though. 'Because my words don't reach anyone. My words made it to me. That’s what sometimes counts, but as you may tell sometimes doesn't go so far as to me. The words made it to me. No doubt they did, but not in a good way.

I saw it for what it was. Pain, agony, suffering. The things that made me stronger in the past weakened me in the present. I cried. I cried for past, present, and future. It was too much. It was awful. The story was long and it went on and on.

The worst thing about it was that I remembered it all. Every second of every tear that I ever shed of every piece of pain I went through... I remembered it all. So every time a day saddened me a tear went down. Then another tear. And then the reality of everything, of every piece of me hit me. And I cried really badly.


A month goes by- I opened my eyes: to the darkness of the light.

What used to be and what could have been was over. Gone. Forever gone. Nothing mattered nothing was seen. I made a decision and it was straight forward. I was done. Nothing else mattered. I was to my limit and the darkness overcrowded. It was TOO much. It was over.