word mouth vomit

I keep dreaming of all the different ways I can attend my own funeral. I keep dreaming, over and over, all the ways in which the world ends. Sometimes the Earth dies. Sometimes the people in it die. I think I'm onto something. One time, this man came into my workplace and told me he was a prophet. Maybe he was sick, and therefore I'm sick. But despite this, I believe we can all be prophets in our own way, either of the future of the whole or of our own selves.

I'm thinking about quitting. My life is static and meaningless and yet being with the love of my life, who could easily have been another dulled and meaningless worker who had a prophet (myself) come into his workplace and change his life, yes, even if it is that, my life is not all that awful when he is around. Through him I've changed my form and discovered the several miniature deaths that come, the killing of the ego, as they call it, the end of a moment and the oh- oh- oh - oh I can't believe I've learned to love through life and death. I am still here, this is still me. I am more me than I have been up until this point in time, and in those moments I am not even myself, I am we.

I won't do it. I'm a coward and hesitant and comfortable. There's a storm that surges through my body and with every shock to the spine and the brain, I move in the same place I started in.

Those parts will shatter.