A Journey Of Death

A Middle

I am watching this world die.

This is a scene I have witnessed countless times, always I watched from a distance. Uncaring for a fate I could not share. But it is different now, this world has touched me, changed me. This is...was... a world that taught me many things, that showed me a perspective I didn't think possible, that I could be more than I perceived myself to be.

I, of all beings equal before creation was allowed to feel, only to experience the loss that now courses through me. If you could hear the sound of my voice as I write this, then you would hear a hollow self ridiculing laugh. How is it that I, a being separate from life am allowed to love and strive? When it has been taken from all that lived here, grew here and died here.

Even now as I think of this my pen scrawls across these faded parchments of paper, useless before my wanderings as to the futility of my actions. I sit here recording this worlds histories, so vibrant and vast, unlike any that I have witnessed before, for what? To have seen a race come so far is my pride.

And yet, who will read this? When the language is gone, my memory faded, and none remain to see the beauty that was. Only paper, faded and worn to dust left behind, remains to be found never after. It is dead. This world. Crumbling around me with every stroke of my pen, of its delicate kiss onto paper, causing a piece of this world to crumble. Once clear blue skies now turn dark as space invades, the encroach of demise ripping its mantles and seas apart as they churn in wrath, powerless to stop the inevitable, the unchanging. The ending. Volcanoes spew their ash and dust into the broken sky, and yet here I sit, the last 'living,' being on this planet. Writing a record of its existence, only to watch that too fade away as the pages leave my hand, crumbling and fading on savage winds that carry the faints whispers of a fearful end.

Soon, when all is gone, I shall be the last part of this place, but still I will sit and record, for I am not ready to say goodbye. For when I leave, there shall truly be nothing left. Me, a being that has pursued death since before the beginning, is afraid to acknowledge its end, even after all that I have learnt.

This was an inevitability I knew of but chose not to believe. As if I had a choice. I suppose, I should record how this all started, where I and the 'others,' began.

What 'we' were, and what 'he' has become.

I shall record, my 'Journey of Death.'