(no subject)
December 02, 2011
At a certain point, the suffering becomes so great no one else can imagine it there, just below the surface, an ever-present volcano on the cusp of exploding. Your body is glass, translucent, but no one can, or cares enough to, see inside to the slow meltdown. It becomes a kind of comfort, this isolation, knowing that you can walk among the living and not be seen. In your greater moments, you imagine that you are alone in your silence, and you are relieved, knowing that no one else feels this distinctive heat under their skin, this magnitude of suffering.
At the end of the world, the last human being is spared from having others witness their final moments, their descent into death. It is a kind of dignity, after all, to set out alone into the unknown, knowing that whatever happens, there is no one left to grieve for you.
At a certain point, the suffering becomes so great no one else can imagine it there, just below the surface, an ever-present volcano on the cusp of exploding. Your body is glass, translucent, but no one can, or cares enough to, see inside to the slow meltdown. It becomes a kind of comfort, this isolation, knowing that you can walk among the living and not be seen. In your greater moments, you imagine that you are alone in your silence, and you are relieved, knowing that no one else feels this distinctive heat under their skin, this magnitude of suffering.
At the end of the world, the last human being is spared from having others witness their final moments, their descent into death. It is a kind of dignity, after all, to set out alone into the unknown, knowing that whatever happens, there is no one left to grieve for you.