Rotting Soul

I had, in a burst of contemplation that I had experienced close to my destination of oblivion, realized — in a grand epiphany — that perhaps I am no longer fit for this world. I am an outcast; I am not part of the tribe, nor I am anyone who can be considered a friend to anyone, for I am — at the core of my humanity — fundamentally different. I am not of the ones who are guided by conformity, nor of any meaningful connection to the land through what is told to them by their superiors, or their idols. For someone like me, who is cursed by the Devil to walk alone for the rest of his life, such a state of being does not perturb me, so much as it does liberate my soul for such a tormenting existence.

“But,” you might say. “Do you not cling to life in the same manner as an animal does?”

Perhaps. Maybe all of my rambling about is merely my way of coping with the fact that I will die, I have already died, and I will die a thousand more times in the future. My soul shall be ground to dust, and my body will rot in the ground for all of eternity, as I, who once roamed these lands, will be forgotten but only to the curious who wish to remember my name and speak of my accomplishments to those who will tune them out, and simply blink as they move on with their own lives.

And perhaps, that is for the best.

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash


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