Songs of the Seabirds

Lately, I’ve been contemplating what it could possibly feel to cease existing. Your body buried deep down below, the surface of your graveyard decorated by fallen leaves and occasional flowers from random visits.
I don’t know what would be more painful: the process of leaving our mortal frame or the possibility of being forgotten, eventually.
Dying, in my mind, is an obligation I will have to carry out. I do not want illness or years to take away everything I have been and could ever be; I have resolved to snap the last thread of my life using my own method and my own hand, in my own time.
When meaninglessness sets in, I take folding my existence and tucking it neatly as an imperative commitment.
I was in an empty playground last night, like I was in an empty playground when I was in kindergarten. I took the empty swing, pressed the tip of my shoes on the ground and let go, like when I was four.
I thought about birds in flight and mountains and lobsters at home, and then I saw myself closing the bathroom door. I filled the tub with water and made some bubble bath. I removed my clothes and got in, and I cried and cried and cried and made an ocean out of everything.
It’s a tragic event — the way our innocence passes so quickly and leaves us behind.
I wish I could still think about birds and mountains and lobsters at home, but lately I’ve been contemplating about ceasing to exist.
I do not know what could be more exhilarating: the prospect of finally vacating this dreadful existence or the possibility of reincarnating in another land and time period.
In a coastline some where, I hope, where rough waves never break on limestone, where hearts remain intact, where sea gulls sing and soar overhead, and where lobsters sit on the kitchen table.

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