#tiredcat writing

[tiredcatboy]

I never wanted to worry about what death the afterlife would be like so young

[tiredcatboy]

Something about this year sapped what was left of my will to live. Not in a way where I’m going to do something final about it, but in a way that has left me not much more than a husk. Mortality hit me. Mortality sank into my weary bones. Those bones that unwillingly trudge towards the grave. 

What’s after this? Probably nothing. Hopefully something. But according to the anecdotes of those who died but were brought back, there’s nothing. A peaceful, comforting nothing. The final act of passing on sounds like the best sleep I’ll ever have, and that’s relieving in some way. Dying does not shake me, but death does. It’s something carnal that gnaws at the back of my mind. I don’t want to stop being me. I don’t want this to be over. I don’t want to leave behind this life I’ve got, these people I’m close to, these hobbies I care about. And the thought of mortality, of how unavoidable it was, it hollowed me.

A skeleton sits in the chair where I once did. The joy of hobbies no longer meaningful, and the time spent with others feeling pointless. A life with no color. I want to see the world heal. I want to see myself heal. But to what end is all this for? My body grows weaker as time goes on. I will age, get sick, and wither away. If this doesn’t get me, something else will in due time. And yet, I continue to trudge on, still feeling some odd drive to move forward. To pursue hobbies, friends, life.

To persevere, despite my weary bones, towards the grave.