I hold my hand out expecting rainfall that never does. Why wouldn’t it choose me, I’ve been rained on before, why not today? Just because the meteorologist plastered the statistic of 0% on the sky doesn’t mean it has to listen. Chaos has a theory of it’s own, and it doesn’t listen to dissenters.

Have you looked at the clouds today? Do they harbor resentment? Do they wait for you look for a silver lining before disappearing into the blue abyss. Why can’t it be? The sun has yet to set and I have yet to decide whether to fly or to be free. What is my yearning, the pit in my soul that I cannot satisfy. Who am I, to question the creator? Am I not creating by putting these words down? Am I channeling the original creators energy, and he moves through me? Am I am man possessed with the fury of an old mans despair weaponized in the form of words?

This has placed itself upon my mind like a hot iron, pressing out the wrinkles and forming itself as a question. What more do I have to do? How much longer must I run? The finish line is inching itself closer, and I want to win but I don’t want to cross it. Cups of water that bystanders hold distract me from my pain, and keep me focused on the road in front. Step by step, end after end, progressing through a track laid out by the many before me. The road paved not with concrete, but the dreams of those who had come before.

Like Everest, we pass the corpses of dead dreams every day and look at them not as once being filled with hope, but as a marker of our progress. If I am to fall and take my last breath, the people behind me will continue on. The people immediately behind me may morn, but they are unable to stop as the line pushes itself evermore toward the summit.

How I long to jump off that summit, to feel the cold air rushing past my face as the bottom and beginning come rushing to meet me. The moment of collision but a split second of pain before the bliss ever after.

Is it a void, or the opposite on the other side of the veil. What even is the opposite of the void. Full? If the despair of life feels like slipping into the void, then happiness is like feeling full? Or maybe to feel fulfilled? Is heaven just the feeling of completeness, finality? Void sounds like neverending quesitoning, so the opposite would be a final answer that leaves us wanting never again.

I want to drink from the cup of fulfillment. To be nourished by the feast of happiness and the to quench my thirst on the answer.

But what if there is no answer? What if there is no time to question? Would you be happy with that conclusion? Is the idea of nothingness unappealing? Scary? Why is the concept of nothing scary? Is lust for life a for of selfishness?

One day I might have more answers than questions but for now I will have to be satisfied with being unsatisfied.