Who could imagine that death lasts so much longer than life. I am starting to wonder how many times a heart can break. I feel so brittle There is very little bend left in me anymore. These memories are a sickness in me. They burden my heart and make lead of my limbs. If I could run from them I would But they follow me wherever I go A myriad of shadows of places I have been And people I have loved and moments I have lost Or am still in the process of losing. What is there but this? This awful, dreadful endless nothing And its accompanying grief. There are people out there who struggle to live Even as struggle to die And wound myself with my warring halves. I have recently realized that there is nothing better than this This is all there is All there is to people All there is to life A great length of disappointments, and let-downs, And rising-only-to-fall, and gaining-only-to-lose, And selfishness, and callousness, and ignorance, and greed. I don’t understand I just don’t understand why we do the things we do. I want to believe the best of people But every time I lose. If life is a game Then I hate the rules.