Suicide no. 60: Untitled
–by Derek Alan Wilkinson
My thoughts are a series of their own kind of abortions.
If you find a reason to survive, and cling to it, I can assure you that it will rot like all things do.
But forward, and forward, and forward. Fast forward, and faster still.
And it all sits still; a Red Queen Arms Race is never won.
If you set sail, you may make it back in time for another voyage forth. If not, you’ll find yourself alongside me and all the broken ramparts—the neuroticisms of the naive.
May your crying infants remind you that life and luminescence both dip themselves into the shadows—where you will find the likes of me, wallowing in this endless abyss.
You all wind up here. We all start and stop.
Life is a jest, and I live only to poke fun like holes in a dingey.