I keep thinking that I matter and get devastated when I don’t. I look at the stars and they say nothing to me, barely twinkle, and I realise I’m just as dead to them as their light to me. Years before I was nothing but genetic potential, years hence I’ll be naught but dust, lucky to be growing flowers from a grave. What is the use of feeling futility, why experience it or anything at all if we are simply the universe’s iterative expression of self. I keep thinking that I matter and it’s this that brings me pain.
I didn’t realise I was digging until I felt the blisters. Once I knew what I was doing, the pain was all that kept me going. I was in over my head before I realised I wouldn’t be able to fill myself in, too deep to provide the hole purpose. I’d wanted a dirt cage to die in but found myself in a horrifying stasis chamber with slim chance of success. I thought if I approached from another angle I could tunnel to oblivion. I didn’t realise I’d dug myself free until I felt the glaring of the light.