Promise.

You’re right. When you murmur in the depths of your silent exhales, I might as well be a burden. A weight too heavy for the animate to sustain, as if I am no more than the struggle to be inanimate. I remember glorifying death when I was a youth; there is freedom in death and perhaps there is but who am I to be known to this fact. I am nothing but the fragment of a thought that you inculcate in the hollows of your testament and I a lone refuge does nothing but answer. The untethered contemplations that rest in your bosom, the sentiment of matter that cramps up inside of you, I can’t but seem to empty it. Useless. “People like you always end up alone.” The paralysis that encapsulates me, like a tumor of sanity dissuading in the insanity that broils in the rawness of each of our spirits; I am terrified. Terror. The numbing of all senses as I dissolve in the realm of regret for I do not want to grieve, for I do not want to die. But whose prey resides in the intrinsic resolution for I seem to be corroding, gradually and with disgust. Maybe that is all I account to; ugliness. “You want this to happen to you.” A voluntary extinction of biodiversity, is that what the human nature craves? An intentional disintegration of discipline and prepossession, the dream of cadavers that we all aim to float upon, do we fall within voluntarily then?

I seem to have lost. The contentment that even your sadness would eliminate, vanishing within the intrinsic conflict. Why do my words seem worthless? Seamless, yet sullen as if they disseminate in an endless vale of despondency. For they don’t even matter, the grief, disappointment and the regret that rots my insides. I really want to disappear but I am incapable of even the simplest task of dying. I have a promise to keep, maybe the only purpose that dampens my existence into matter. Matter that nestles within the emptiness that scours my playing ground. The grounds of your verdant existence that wilt in the realm of depersonalization. “This too shall pass.” It shall; the weight of the scathe and the constellations beneath our promise.

– Imaan Siddiq