Sorrow

 What is life but to tenderly wait for the night to deepen, for the world to forget every memory of you, the smell of dark circles around your lonely pitch black eyes, the eyes that have seen and become conscious of seeing, so much so that the objects lose meaning themselves. What is life but to welcome everything at once and vomit everything out at each morning, fearing a solitary dream of greyed out sleepiness that haunts you, the stillness of rain in a December night like the sorrowful unending music somewhere, wishing it to stop but it continues to pelt down on this Godforsaken earth...

What is life with that unceasing downpour, like the continuity of averageness in every decision you make, celebrating the act of dragging on instead of running fast, because you secretly knew that the path is a short one and running fast will get you on the finishing line much faster than expected, so you defy yourself and benumb yourself into expectations, so this mediocrity, this all consuming peaceful dread, it slowly grows into your being and the being of the perfect social human:

You are born into this,

You are raised into this,

You became part of this,

You cherished and chose this,

You and your family both did,

And you had kids who are born into this,

who will do the same

Given the same set of choices,

And on a night like this,

With rain falling incessantly

Inside their insomniac head,

They shall ask:

What is life but to be patient enough to die of natural causes and be reincarnated every time?