There’s is an incomplete truth, in that old proverb, about not being able to take it with you, when you die. The unabridged reality, that no one tells you when you’re twenty is that, you will take most things to your grave. Especially the horror of things you cannot articulate

There’s just no fucking way, some of us can completely empty ourselves during one lifetime, and let go of some injuries, memories; and to utter these/to share would mean dragging others into your torment, a karmic complicity

And that’s okay. I think it’s okay, and better to come to terms about the limits of death. That it’s not the end of torment, of consciousness, or the punishment for crimes. Just metabolism


©Jessie Sandoval

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