Everyone is certain that at the end of this state of perpetual trip, regardless of who or what is or was the source of the collective high, there will come a cessation of Being of whichever Being you now find yourself to be.

The mass concensus of the bodily woes huddle around fear and sorrow: selfish feelings stemmed from our own contempt for the unknown.

We are afraid of the goal we are meant to achieve.

Life is like a marathon in which each contestant grasps and claws frantically at bystanders and barricading objects in an attempt to anchor themselves within the race, feeling a sense of dread and sorrow for competing runners who were unfortunate enough to reach the finish line.

My current understanding of death(which might therefore be considered my understanding of most things in life) is minimal at best. Be that as it may, if I don't remember being born, in spite of all the photographic evidence and anecdotal accounts from my elders, why would I believe anyone who tells me I will one day reach a cessation of the only reality that I can whole heartedly believe to even exist in the first place:

Being Me.

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