a brain fart
In my world, it is a repetition of dying that defines a risk.
It is a series of diving from a cliff, acquiring countless wounds only to let myself garner more scars.
It is a chain of nights drinking until my brain could no longer mask the raindrops stored inside, traversing through the sun and storm only to wake once more with a magical bucket of beer.
It is a succession of stabbing myself with fictional glimpses of what-could-be despite repeatedly finishing with a what-never-was.
It is a sequence of unresolved conflicts, of meaningless nights of escapism, of empty laughter, and of futile attempts to hold on to the fragile string of hope.
It is pain and poignancy circling through all emotions but never leaving, attached to every second, to every utterance of I wish I were dead.
And I am dead.
But for all the paradoxical reasons that the universe fails to comprehend, I am alive.
To take another risk.
To die anew.