Everybody walks this earth
with their dread tucked beneath the pillow.
Smother the urge to speak—
no one really wants to hear you. No.
Grief?
Bury it with the dead,
or the living will leave you behind.
They are not cruel, just self-possessed—
but so are you, child.
If life is a series
of utter despair—
a relentless joke with no punchline—
doesn’t that ever make you wonder
what makes it worth living…
this life?
Now—don’t be mistaken.
I love this life. I do.
But had I never been born,
I wouldn’t have missed it.
As someone once said—
the most compassionate thing
you could ever do
is not to procreate.
And yet…
Who would’ve mourned our absence
if none of us had ever been born?
Or is that the true gift—
that we exist here
at all?
