Living

 When you know that life is not worth living, yet you yearn for friendship, for love, for care, for all the things that make life bearable enough, and write things about loneliness when there is nothing to write; when you stop at a someone's home and forget why you even came in the first place, when you divide plants and animals into reasonable beings and humans into something beyond reasoning only to drown into the greatest sufferings known to man, when you live while everything defies living, when you lose all that you have into a game of existing authentically, when you slide into despair and remain inside the wombs of the pitying kind, when you do not know when to stop drinking so much alcohol that it ultimately ruins the essence of you, you remember, you always remember that Brooks was there, that Red was there, that hope is a good thing, and a good thing never dies.