darling this life will kill you

the snow falls as thick as raindrops but does not melt.

i believe some things are illusionary. that is to say, they litter missions and life like truth. inspirational, aspirational—they create illusions.

they scatter thoughts and missions wide, like butterflies, seeking places of rest. brightly colored wings flutter, synchronized. they will fall like scaled petals, leaking flakes of black and orange ink on freshly fallen snow.

the world will say that is some way to die. i think i agree. sometimes i think it’s what’s before death that’s important but not really—it is possible to glow in the act of death too, and that will make you living.

irrelevant, all things considering. irreverent—darling, this life will kill you. sometimes i believe i am exceptions, layered, frosted—but do not tell a soul, darling. speaking gives lies truth, i’ve heard.

impossibility glitters and in the way it is, i believe too, that it is mine. untouchable, blown proportions—breath on air. i claim kinship to the divine, as though i mustered heartbeat alone, as though i am alone—i did not, i am not. this is a great responsibility that is not mine.

illusionary. i am made of illusions. the act of living enjoys dissipating in pure winter air—i like to think we were born together, this act and i. we breath the same air, share the same lungs and together we are insurmountable. only sometimes it leaves me and i am alone.

irrelevant.

i glow.

and still i know this life will make it so i was never alive.

ps

this is a repost from substack! i'm working on moving my favorite posts here ehe