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Whispers of Existence

In quiet moments, I ponder the edge, not with morbid fascination, but with a quest to understand why I am here, why I breathe, why I stand. It’s not the act, not the end I seek, but the reason for my stay, an urge to not be here, yet here I am, day after day. Society fears these whispered thoughts, the dread of nonexistence; they misunderstand, recoil in fright, avoid the shadows of persistence.

For me, death is not the enemy. It’s the silence, the solitude I fear, the loneliness of navigating these thoughts without an ear. My partner, dear as he may be, cannot grasp this constant fight. He thinks my thoughts reflect on him, and thus, we clash in the night. He cannot see the ever-present struggle that began in youth. He thinks our joy should banish all, that love should keep these thoughts aloof.

But love is not a cure-all balm. It cannot quench this existential fire. It cannot erase the contemplation that stems from an inner choir. I long to share, to speak aloud of death, of life, of in-between, for in these conversations lies a peace, a solace, unseen. It soothes my soul to voice the void, to share the depth of my despair, to feel less alone in the vast unknown, to find someone who’ll meet me there.

But fear pervades, and silence reigns, for these are topics shunned, and so I wander, lost in thought, a journey never done. In seeking understanding, I find a solitary path to tread, yet in my heart, I hold a hope for a dialogue, unled by dread. To speak of life, to speak of death, with those who fear it not, to find a kinship in the dark, and feel less overwrought.

So here I am, with whispers soft, of why, of how, of when—not to plan an end, but to comprehend the nature of my pen. To write my story, free of shame, to speak of shadows without fright, to share the weight of existence, and find a kindred light.

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