It's funny to think that I, so full of youth and energy, shall one day come to wither, just like a flower, and all other living beings. Like a travelling car reaching the end of the tunnel... except... will there really be light at the end of the tunnel? Maybe too much of it; it's blinding.


Funny to think that one day I will again look into the mirror and recognize myself, except I'll be totally different. Even when I don't know what to search for in myself, because I don't really know who I am or what makes me me, I'm pretty sure I'll recognize something old that hasn't changed. Hopefully. Then, there'll be new wrinkles, slowly dragging me into the darkness of old age. My skin far too used, my eyes droopy from having seen so much. I imagine my eyes to be like cameras that futurely will have infinite times more film and memory stored inside them. Precious stuff that I won't share with absolutely anyone. And I wonder... how will I observe my own reflection? Will my mind be restless, or sedentary, like most become? Shaded by "the whips and scorns of time", to quote Hamlet, and corrupted by most evil maturing. But I believe it's all in the head, you know... so I might not turn out a peevish old lady, if I don't give up on living passionately and freely. If I don't allow my spirit to wither too.

I am only a mortal soul talking to other mortal souls; we that come and go to school and towards death everyday (just accept it). And yet we live to forget our secret desires and thoughts, our sins, our imperfect and beautiful nature and the happinness that follows, complete in its truthfulness. Rich living is finite, as is love, and even hate; feelings that are real and fortunately exist! Why should we deny all that makes us who we are?


I think you and me are cowards. Zombies wishing really hard we could last forever, as if wishing could change our ends. And yet we force ourselves to believe we are everlasting, and prefer to live most of our days in a convenient emptiness, shrugging of the shoulders, passive apathetic routines in blind obedience. Choosing to set out rules and so-called ideal forms to our innocent days on Earth, which only ask for peace.


And while I sit here knowing that one day I shall again sit here knowing, I also sit here knowing that one day I shall sit here again not knowing - of why I do not know, of why I even sit here. Of why I can never possibly know, or understand any of this. When my hair grows white and I start sleeping less, I hope I don't settle. At least I'll go up to where my health permits. But I feel that I am not - and will never come to be - an idle zombie on autopilot. Trust me, though: in the fast-moving world of today, where free-will and capacity of individual thinking are either rare or merely illusions, this is not at all that obvious.