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Be Immortal, Please.

I'm starting to fear death a little. Is it for the better? Has my life begun to carry weight, to have something worth holding onto, something to care for?

I haven't lost anything in my life. That's a lie. I've lost a lot, but I've never lost anything that loved me back. Perhaps that's why grief has always been easy to swallow.

Now, death seems to loom over my family, like a rope that's caught fire, burning down the threads from one end, inching closer to the other—the roots of where I came from. With them, stories and memories that only they know will die. It feels as though something must be lost for it to be missed. A person’s life must have weight.

It feels closer now. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Am I speaking it into existence? I don’t believe in that, but I have a bad feeling. I know what’s coming is imminent, but must it happen with my eyes wide open?

As I grow older, I find myself struggling to understand death more and more. It was never explained to me as a child—it wouldn’t have made sense to a child. And yet, somehow, it made more sense back then. It was easier to swallow, like an abstract concept that didn’t touch me personally.

I don’t think I was made for grief—was anyone? They say you're only given what you can carry. It feels like an insult. The fact that I must persevere. Regardless of what happens, the earth keeps spinning. Not a moment of silence for what has been lost.

There are bills to pay. There are always bills to pay. There will always be bills to pay.

I’m worried about something they've already come to terms with, something I can’t understand at all. I don’t want to be okay with the idea of being gone.

It changes from second to second, but right now, I want everyone to live. To make this place better so that no one wants to leave. I wonder—will my existence be enough to convince you to stay?

Was it ever really your choice to come here in the first place?



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