It feels strange to even speak. Why is it that it never feels like existing is a property that I have. Watching the world and those on it deteriorate. But we call age an achievement, as its also a burden, a curse. Waiting for all of us to just come and end this existence of which we may have left a mark, but soon disappears, like chalk masterpieces on a rainy day, we lose our touch, we disconnect what was left of any connection. Mortality is terrible, but at least it brings some sort of closure. An ending to our story, with answers still unknown, yet don’t need to be known any longer. We are pieces of chalking drawing until we are stubs or are gone. We then leave our beauty, until rain or the unseemly hose, controlled by others, intent on ending all entirely, either to forge anew or just to keep a blank slate.