there are some parts of me somewhere in the depth of my mind that are still unwillingly attached to the idea that i will not make it too far- that death will pick me up before anyone even get to witness few wrinkles formed in the corner of my eyes. Though it doesn’t scare me anymore, the melancholic rush it brings me every time reminds me of the fact that nothing is immortal- to me death isn’t the end after all.
But whatever feeling I am getting now only gives me more gratitude than fear- like every little thing I get to experience feels a trillion times more beautiful than it probably should but it feels real, and that’s all that matters. They are real, I am real.