After the Party

Life is unbearable—
they say the eyes are windows to the soul,
but what of the man with no eyes?
What of the erased,
the ones whom even memory denies?

Better to vanish
than to have never begun.
When the map folds against you,
and the path dissolves in your hands,
they say, look on the bright side—
but even brightness burns.

All this will end.
That’s the promise and the curse.
We aren’t here for long—
thankfully.

So what does it matter?

For now, I just sit.
Hoping.
Waiting.
Watching.
As so many have, in silence,
through centuries of sameness,
pondering eternity—
a word too large
for such a small life.

The keys on my laptop
tick like a tired clock,
each letter a coffin nail
in the casket of now.

Who will remember us?
No one.
You and me,
we’ll fade like fog on glass.
We’ll echo
for a moment—
then go still.

Life is just
brief jolts of joy
lost between
hours of slow torment.

It ends like the party does—
the lights flicker on,
the laughter gone,
everyone gone.

And you are left
with the floor littered,
the silence heavy,
and only yourself
to clean it up.