drown.

As we grow and change, we are no longer the same. Those children are dead and we’ve flourished into adults, no longer pure, no longer untouched.

Generation nothing, something I’ve embodied, is turning into something. I refuse to be nothing. I will not stay in the same place, refusing to grow.

I’m not prepared for that day, but I don’t fear it. What’s the point in that, fearing something you can’t avoid? The best you can do is make yourself ready when the angels of death surround you.

Accept it, don’t fight it. Be ready. Don’t stray from the light. It’s warm and bright and welcoming, just the way you’ve always heard it was.

Ten minutes later and the strong smell of coffee is circulating through the kitchen. It helps to wake you up, but some of that sleepiness from before still remains, enough to keep your eyes half-lidded and voice soft and breathy. You yawn, your eyes close and begin to water when you open them again.

As you sit on the back porch, warm coffee mug in hand, you think and think about all you’ve done. What good have you done? What bad have you done? You’re undeserving of anyone’s sympathy. How could anyone ever cry for you when you don’t feel bad about anything? These thoughts plague you as you sip your black coffee.

All you want to do is sleep. As the snow comes down, the chill in the air nipping at your skin, you finish your coffee and stare out at the sky as the sun begins to rise. Can the sun cleanse you of your sins? Can you ever be as pure as the white snow on the ground?