On these lonely nights I look up at the stars and my mind begins to wander. It travels trough the cosmos faster than light, taking me to the farthest reaches of the universe, past all the stars and galaxies, and beyond what we know and what we probably will ever discover. In the midst of all the empty space and nothingness the same question runs across my thoughts; what happens to us when we die? My heart drops a thousand miles within me while my whole body feels as if I’m walking through a blizzard, frozen from the inside out, because I come to the conclusion that once I have passed, the universe I call home will continue on without me. The sun will continue to cause the planets to gyrate, the stars will die while new ones are born, but for me the end has come. A balloon of sadness commences to swell within me and the inquiry breathes life into it, out of my control. For when the expansion begins I can not stop it, nor can I even slow it down despite my superlative attempts. As the despair and desolation overtakes me the consciousness of breaking down in tears is all too genuine. I know that if I were to feel the warm drops of liquid running down face I would find some sort of relief from this affliction, so I beg for them to arrive on the edges of my lower eyes lids only to have them overflow or be propelled down my cheeks. Yet, all my whimpers of clemency fall upon the deaf ears of that question, and I have found that the tears I so long for will never come. They abandoned me years ago, and now these words are the only tears I can cry. The sensation is different, the solace is minimal, and I am still left in my compromised state until the time comes where I can no longer keeps my eyes open and mind functioning. I feel cursed, given all these emotions but not a means to express them in such a way that allows me to be at peace with myself. Then, again my head begins to be crowded with notions of self-loathing and intolerability, which only furthers my pathetic condition. The loss of hope is unbearable, but worse, I become aware that I never truly had hope to begin with. How could someone have hope when these kinds of thoughts and feelings constantly plague them, reminding them that they are, for the rest of their lives, stuck with them as their only means of company within their mind? Some learn to deal with it, they acquire the skills needed to put on a mask for others to hide their suffering, but others much like myself find it hardly worth the fight. In these moments, the best friend we have is that of death, the reason we have these feelings to begin with. The anticipation of the impending end is worse than the act of dying itself and the lure of escape only becomes stronger. I am a fish in the darkest depths of the ocean while eternal rest is the bioluminescent light on the tip of the reaper melanocetus johnsoni. Its attractive light has kept my focus for all this time and I have barely kept myself from moving too close. I do not know how long I can hold out, and I feel as if I am losing this struggle. The conclusion of my life causes me pain, and it will only be so long before that torment is no longer worth it and I embrace death for what it is.