Maybe when you die it’s like a file being deleted. You don’t cease to exist suddenly, you just disappear from the world to be gradually overwritten by history, swallowed by space. Maybe a ghost is just a deleted file, an empty space-suit roaming around the universe without the dictates of physics.What words of comfort would you lend me if one day, in some corner of the galaxy you encounter my lonely deleted soul floating about somnolently, drifting slowly as a thin and greying cloud, shivering like a thin old man in the wind, and sobbing, sobbing at my monumental loneliness? I hope you will remind me that it will only be a matter of time, yes only a matter of time until the oxygen-free wind of ones and zeros will infiltrate my spacesuit, out here in this infinite tapestry of ones and zeros. And I’ll be drowned out by the noise of galactic explosions, and the blinding colors of supernovas. Overwritten by this holographic universe, gone and forgotten forever.
A distant voice from the lacquer blackness: You’ve disappeared little Arya. Where have you gone to?
Girl: Consigned myself to solitude…essentially on account of suicidal depression and such.
So lonely and bored and life is utterly pointless etcetera.
Finding-someone-to-face-the-end-of-the-world-with(popularly known as dating)-wise I don’t tend to be desired and stuff.
I don’t know why exactly.
I guess because I’m a loser.
And not pretty enough.
Or smart enough.
Or maybe people simply like simple people.
Or all of the above.
Some dream of becoming a calcified old rose on someone’s mantle, a crushed sweet thing in a closet, or even a pot pouri.
But not I.
No, I would rather be blown away from the garden in full bloom, to make an elegant exit in the lush splendor of my youth and beauty.
Yes I would rather dance away on the wind’s sigh at my most ravishing, right before the first petal shrivels, right before the sun sets on the summer.
To be cast up by the wind and carried out to sea at the dawn of autumn, what a dignified end that would be.
What a sad sight to see, is she
Who meets her ruinous end with withered leaves and drooping stem.
Sadness is a powerful intoxicant. You never know what you’ll say when drunk on it. Who knows what you’ll reveal in your heartbroken stupor? The morning after, as you nurse your crying-hangover, you’ll shake your head and ask yourself “what did I say last night?”