I know I will be gone soon. I feel exhausted, a feeling brought on by something much bigger than me that has been tormenting me with glimpses of hope that are so swiftly, cruelly extinguished.
So when I talk of the permanent… I mean is there even the slightest chance of the most miniscule legacy to be left behind by me?
No. I want to believe it, but no. I mean nothing to anyone. I stupidly though I did. I’ve learnt the harshness and cruelty the art work revels in. It couldn’t care less about such a pathetic specimen as I.
So my work remains out here. Until one day it doesn’t. My parents will store it away to be forgotten, and from there to whatever landfill will have it.
Life has nothing but cruelty to offer. Right to the end.