As long as you’re making payments to the institutions around you, or friends, belongings: working toward a degree and promotion, well, you’re swindled into this delusion you’re progressing.
It’s not a lie to say you are. There are tangible aftermaths as long as you put one foot ahead another. But you know, the funny part comes after your last instalment.
That’s when it registers as though nothing happened. Whatever accolade acquired or money injected, suddenly something darkly voracious calls within.
While you were the devoted one, well, another debt accumulated – one which came with birth. A “mental debt,” messy and long since due.
The only way to pay off the mental debt is to do nothing. Just sit there, and depending on the degree of negligence – or delay in your cognizance of its existence – so one may thrash around.
I got mine to pay, but instead I entertain myself until nauseous. Which just means more to endure.
Even if you learn there’s no point being remembered, there’s still a primordial fear of no longer existing. When I stop going online to waste time, it may as well feel like I no longer exist. There’s a submerged corridor and suspended glass from the broken bulbs above – one can only hear a heartbeat.
No matter how much you want to delay it. Eventually all the rooms close and that’s the only exit: the only cross to bear. Bargain you may, assured all the time spent away was worth something. Maybe, maybe in relation to how well you fare in your snorkel gear: your strung abyss is waiting.
No matter how much one could clip onto some wisps and computer clicks, inevitably the narration ceases: in its wake so comes the finale-for-one, whenever it comes.
For your eyes only.