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Beautiful Disaster

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There's no one home, I realize, as I walk up the drive. I find myself alone so often nowadays, I'm getting tired of my own company.
I was never alone at my old home, where there were memories to keep me company. Memories in the scratches on the wood flooring in the kitchen, memories in the smudges on the sun-strained windows. Here there is nothing but the uncomfortable feeling that I'm surrounded by the memories of another. Perhaps multiple others, who have come and since left, leaving only fading marks of their time spent here. This house is saturated by these moments that I shared no part of, but now walk among like a ghost.
With so much time on my hands, my companions are often thoughts, riddles and conundrums. My appetite has been fading, but I thrive on food for thought.
I've come to terms with it, finally, in this place filled by foreign memories. I've accepted the inevitability of it.
Life is pointless, already ending as soon as it's begun. What makes us keep trudging through?
Life is hardly ever rewarding, it's unforgiving. Life isn't pleasing or profound, like some famed works of art that can also be deemed pointless.
Life is a disaster. Such a beautiful disaster.
It makes my mind hesitate, like a finger on the trigger, a train of thought bringing me to the brink of giving up and ending this misery we call a life.
I'm not ready to give up on this beautiful disaster just yet.



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