Work Text:
I often find myself caught in a quiet scenario, and it goes as such:
If someone were to approach me—offering to erase my existence entirely, without consequence—would I accept?
And with each passing day, I find myself answering yes.
I know life is meant to be a gift, a reason in itself to keep going.
But I can’t seem to bring myself to find the beauty in it.
Each day feels like a tiring cycle—repetitive, unchanging, numbing.
Where, then, is one supposed to find the joy in this?
They say everyone has a purpose, a meaning etched into their being.
But the search for mine feels exhausting and I can't be bothered to find it out.
Even the idea of existing feels heavy—so unbearably heavy.
Is it selfish, I wonder, to hope that when I die, it simply ends?
No afterlife.
No heaven.
Just... silence.
The thought of simply fading into nothingness always brings me more comfort
than the idea of an eternal paradise ever could.
And I feel shameful for even admitting that, no less having the thought.
But the more I think about it, the promise of eternal happiness has always felt so... bittersweet.
What is joy, if not contrasted by sorrow?
If I am to live forever in bliss,
Would I not forget what it meant to ache?
What becomes of happiness without the memory of sadness?
If I am to live forever in happiness,
would I forget what pain is?
What love cost me?
What grief taught me?
Would I lose the weight
of all that made joy matter?
And so, I say—perhaps selfishly, perhaps honestly—
When I die, I hope that’s all there is.
No grand continuation.
Just a gentle, final stillness.