If today, on this moment, your existence turns no more.
Without a trace, knowledge of, and inseparably, consent.
What would be left?
Will it be sorrow?
To be left by and to leave the ones you love behind, it is humane to be.
Will it be… Anger?
For our lives are reaped instantaneously by who we deem as “God”, it is also humane to be.
And how about the people around you? Either those who merely crowded you or those who truly encircled your being.
What feeling would be bestowed upon them?
What words will their tongue sound in memory?
Perhaps, you will be praised as a human who lived your life as to how one should be. Or instead, your name will forever be intertwined with curses.
Frankly, what good will it bring to think of the already occurred? For our existence has become naught, what our lives were could no longer be altered.
Thus, it is futile. For whatever we are, good or evil, we are no longer who we once were.
And truthfully, every human life is under the bondage of another’s arrogance. Whoever we are, whatever we do, and how we have become, are all molded by another’s desires, shaped by what they want to believe over our lives. Under that conceit, what is deemed unfitting of an individual, will immediately be thrashed. And to replace what has been emptied, they manufacture whatever fact they perceive as correct.
That is why sayings such as, "You will continue to live within our hearts.”, are lies. Lies which are merely used to calm the hearts of those whose lives are near its end. Allowing that person to nod in acceptance and embrace their death whole. Undeniably, it is a kind deed.
However, even behind the curtains of kindness, a lie forever remains as one.
As we die, so will our existence cease.
I found myself waking up from quite the refreshing sleep. As I was trying to open my eyelids, my sights were slowly blanketed by the sun’s greetings, its light layering the walls of my room with a warm silhouette. And to reply, I stared towards the side of my bed, gazing out the window.
Today, similar to any others, I will ready myself to go to school. And to do so, I would have to exit my bedroom and wave goodbye to this enveloping comfort. And due to that heavy consequence, my hand froze, hovering right above the handle of my bedroom’s door.
Since when has this feeling of mine existed? Every single time I tried to exit my room, a sense of hesitation always emerges from within me. But logically, it was not that shocking of a phenomenon. Hypothetically, if choosing not to attend school has zero repercussions, who would not have hesitated?
That is if there was no such thing as reality.
And that very same reality dragged my fingers down towards the earth, compelling me to open the door before me. However, even with the existence of reality itself, I still do believe that some people would choose to not exit their haven.
But perhaps, their reasons would be quite different from mine.
Acting as if it was another opening eyelid, the door unveiled a new scenery. One that is ever so familiar.
There was no one, not one figure.
Naught but the emptiness of yet the fully-furnished vicinity. And as if it was an already hardened clay, the repetition of this spectacle has condensed into a habit. Regularly, there would be no one to greet me in the morning. And sometimes, I feel anger filling me whenever I thought of this as something of the ordinary. However, that anger would come to subside on its own.
Perhaps, subside is not the most appropriate term to describe its cease.
At the very least, that feeling leaves for a moment, only to come back and haunt me whenever it decides to. For the feelings that I have has never erupted, not because I am patient nor kind, but due to the fact that there has been no one to receive the end of my welling emotions. And thus, they were now in slumber, choosing only to wake up when they feel the need to remind me of their existence.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward, away from the door of my bedroom. Without much of a thought, my feet brought me towards the kitchen. And because of the closing distance, I now see that there was at least something in the kitchen.
It was one portion of fried rice, placed on top of the kitchen table.
Unlike how fried rice is usually served, the dish in front of me did not show any remains of fog of steam. And as I tasted it, my mouth was then filled with a sense of discomfort, coming from the oil seepage of each grain of rice. It seems that the rice and the cooking oil was no longer merged due to the time of serving.
Suddenly, the sight of this fried rice reminded me about something interesting. I remembered that I once heard a man on the television claiming that he prefers to eat his pizza cold. I guess there exist some odd people who deviate from the recommendations. Well, who am I to judge their preferences? I strictly can only judge my own. And due to that judgeable preference, I should probably heat this fried rice in front of me with the microwave which was located in the kitchen. Perhaps it would make it taste a little bit more bearable.
But similar to the saying “There is always an exception to the rule”, this portion of fried rice serves as that exception. And in combination with the lack of presence within the house, everything becomes a perfect representation of what was now.
“It feels that it will still be cold even if I were to burn it to a crisp.”