Seven Minutes More
Where are you going? To the great beyond or the great nothing? You finally reached where you were going to end up all along, and you don't even know where it is. Or what you are. What the hell have you done? I've been there your whole life, watching as you stumble and stagger through the great maze cluelessly. I think you completely missed the point. Everyone did. It has all been for nothing. Everything you owned, everything you ever cared for, everything you bothered to worship...
At the back of your mind, you always knew. What, you think you forgot when you skipped your tiny, growing legs to the sound of deafening church bells? I was aware. I watched when you stood there, your black hair smeared in gel and your shiny black shoes sqeaking on the wooden floorboards. You stood tall, a wide grin glued to your face, perfectly still in your smart black suit and tie, engulfed in the overwhelming swarm of hypnotised men and women flocking to their seats.
You squeezed your mother's bony hand tightly as your other hand gripped on to the white sheet of paper, your eyes darting to meet the ancient, sophisticated words of the magic man. You didn't put a single thought to what it was all about, did you? You just tried desperately to wrap your distracted head around the words as you blindly sang, your timid voice lost to the storm of tragic, shrill voices of people trying to drown out the doubting thoughts drilling into their fearful heads.
The tragic chorus lingered in your head, though. You could never make sense of why the texts unified so many people together. And why would you be able to? You were only eight at the time. God was just perceived as a vengeful word to you when mum and dad dropped the idea and let the infection spread to your youthful mind. Even up until now, you've been loyal to your faith, the echoing bell sucking you in every Sunday. Because you grew up with it, because they all told you God was real. And nobody ever told you he wasn't. Because they were afraid that he wasn't.
But we never got confirmation. The idea of god could be nothing but confetti in the eyes of the world. What if none of it was ever real? What then? You would have devoted your entire life to the great nothing. Then what? And without God giving us a purpose, you're nothing but a stick in the woods, waiting for the outstretched arms of nature to take you down for good. My god, what if you wasted your life to but a myth?
If only these thoughts flashed past your head when you were surrounded by the harrowing church organs and the great altar and the great decorative windows and seats. If only you considered the possibility of your beliefs being a lie before you decided to give up your life to chase it.
Six Minutes More
I was watching all through your childhood, our premature soul screaming as you wasted the days away. You never really had a long childhood. Those were the only days it was acceptable to waste. I still remember the day you lost your sweet childhood innocence.
You were only twelve at the time, the vibrant colours of the TV flashing wildly in front of your fluttering eyes as the dark night struck your windows. The sickly scent of your supper lingered from the kitchen to the living room where you sat, slumped on the sofa in your baggy school uniform. I watched as your naive, entranced eyes got sucked in to the nonsense of the blaring news. The words were burning like the sun and you couldn't look away.
I can't remember exactly what it was. Perhaps it was the magic man's supposed puppets blowing up another plane. Or maybe it was more riots on the streets, filled with people protesting something you could never understand. Or maybe it was another psychotic arsonist, or a paranoid kidnapper, or another car crash. All I can remember is feeling your eyes widen as you backed further into the sofa, the taunting words escaping the chapped, red lips of the unbothered reporters.
Your chest burning tightly, you glanced at your mother, confused as she sat beside you, unfazed by the colourful destruction. She looked on with rolling eyes and a slumped position as she sighed at the TV. She didn't even care that she just saw raw footage of... whatever it was. You opened your delicate mouth as you turned your head to her, desperste for answers. But somewhere in the back of your beautiful mind, you didn't want to know. You just pinched the back of your neck and watched on, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as you first saw the imperfections of the great world.
I remember watching you stumble through your streets on the way to school the next morning. The news was nothing but confetti to the heavy eyed civilians ; they strolled past your vision as if everything was okay. Nothing was ever okay. People were dying across the world and nobody seemed to care.
For weeks, you could never get that out of your head. But you kinda understand it now. When you first sat there, watching the news for the first time, it shattered the perfect eutopia your childish imagination dreamed everything to be. Over the years, you just sort of got used to it. You saw it everywhere you went, the words still scorching like the burning sun. It was unavoidable.
So why didn't you do anything about it? You had a lifetime to get your life together and make something of it. You could have made your mark, your legacy on the lives of so many people. You could have made the world slightly less corrupt if you wanted to. But instead you chose to be insignificant, just like everyone else, not even a ripple in the ocean. You chose to get some dead end job and have your life on a loop for decades, for what? What is your life worth now?
You are insignificant to the rest of the world. Only a miniscule of people will remember you, and sooner or later, any memories of you will be gone and you will be nothing but meaningless words on a random gravestone. Because you didn't change a thing.
Five Minutes More
You never did find out what it was all about, did you? You did a pretty lousy job at trying to discover the world. As you grew further away from your childhood, you just accepted the mysterious rules of your monotone life. What is the point of any of it? Most would say our one purpose is reproduction, to prepare for the next generation to make earth shattering discoveries that you will never ever see because death will clutch its cold, dead hands on your heavy soul before you get the chance. You used to say it was love. You naive soul.
I remember the wide smile tiring your face as you stared deeply into her hazel eyes. The water fountain blasted like fireworks in the background as you allowed your laughter to echo into the dead of night. You felt her next to you. The way she brushed her sooth, brown hair aside. The way she shrugged her shoulders and dangled her feet over the edge carelessly.
You were only twenty five at the time, but you were captivated by her presence. Just the way her petite fingertips danced effortlessly down the concrete ledge as she turned her head to face you. It all made every single one of your troubles dissolve into nearly nothing. Just for a split second, she made you forget just how insignificant both your lives were.
Her name was erm ... Nina? Maybe? You moved your shaky hand to hold down your fancy buttoned shirt and pounding tie that soared in the chilling air. With an everlasting grin that you couldn't help but hang on to, you looked back at the house, trying to drown the swimming, desperate thoughts out of your head. I think it must've been a work party. Christmas, maybe.
Even when you weren't looking at her, you could just sense her warm smile that lit up the dim streets. You didn't want to look at her for five minutes more because you knew you'd never be able to take your eyes off her again. The clear fumes from your cigarette bounced off the violent wind as she took your hand and leapt off the lesge onto the pavement. You just followed her lead ; you didn't even care where you were going with her at this point.
Soothing sounds of the trickling fountain water radiated through the town as you staggered away with the girl, who was looking back at you with a warm smile on her face. You two had been talking for hours outside the party ; you recognised her from your job even though you two never spoke before.
And it was only after she took you away and embraced you that you even considered the idea of being a loveable person. From then, every time you smiled, you were locked into that one moment. The moment where you first talked to her. The moment in the great maze where everything seemed to make sense for once. The one gift your mess of a life granted.
It was the first time you fell in love. It plagued you. You started thinking about her every now and then, and then a lot more. You couldn't pry your mind's dead fingers away from the thought of your pumping heart on that fateful night.
Everything about that night was so tied to her that, twenty years from then, you'd have heard the sound of the trickling water fountain once more, and just for a moment more, you'd have remembered exactly how you felt that night.
I remember everything.
The night you carried her into your coffee scented apartment on new year's eve and kissed as the bright fireworks illuminated the sofa. How awkward you were on your first meal out on valentine's day, wearing that extravagant black suit and tie as you laughed the night away. The day she moved in, you both nervously smiling amongst the overflowing boxes. You didn't know if it was even the right thing to do, but you went along with it anyway. Because it was cheaper, and easier, and you'd see her everyday, and it was so much cheaper, and she was the one, and anyone who ever told you otherwise were foolish idiots.
Sitting under the glaring white lights, awaiting the scan of your first newborn girl. The frustration under your skin as you tried to piece the cot together. Your heavy eyes fixated on that flailing, tiny body in front of you. The party: the sickness that flooded over you when you saw her laughing with another man at the party, and the relief you felt at how easy it was to talk to another girl there. Your first big argument, and staggering back across the stained kitchen floor, shocked at how red her face got. Going for a run every morning just to get away from her snoring. Looking back in the photo albums with her just to remember how young and lively you used to be. Watching your daughter grow up and morph, silently hating yourself for letting her childhood slide out of your hands. The day she staggered into the living room sombrely and demanded a divorce.
Just the thought of that first night makes your heart buzz. So why did you let her slip out of your grasp? Being with her was the happiest time of your pointless life. So maybe love was your purpose. Or maybe you were born to do something else entirely and you just wasted your life.
Four Minutes More
You just wasted your life. You were probably born to do something special with your life. You could have had talents and aspirations. I know you so well. I know what you really wanted.
You wanted to become an author, didn't you? That was supposed to be your impact on the world. You just wanted to have your name on something so that you could last forever. You just wanted to do something creative to unleash that adventurous boy you used to be. Or at least you thought you used to be.
You thought you'd have your name in lights by the time you were thirty. Instead, you were thirty-five and still clicking buttons in some dead end office job. Every day, that thought lingered in the back of your head. The one that told you to pursue the dreams you once had. But that thought was stupid. Because your dreams were dead. That wonderous little boy was dead and his skeleton was working days and nights in... marketing? Finance? Something boring like that. A slave to the never dying corporate world.
Where's your name on anything? What's your legacy now? Because soon I will be gone, and you will be nothing more than a worthless, lifeless, forgotten, sinking sack of bones in the ground. Because that's all we ever were.
Seriously, did you ever think you'd value all those arduous work tasks on your death bed? No. There were much more important memories to be had with your then girlfriend and daughter, but you replaced them with work. And what did that get you? A fancy new office every six months with a full window view so you can see everyone in the city that was under your business's puppet fingers.
I still don't understand how you enjoyed that job. Of course, I know that you were never an adventurous boy, but it was like your life was on a daily loop. And that seemed worthwhile to you? Your life is an eighty-year flash of bright colours and feelings before it's back to the great beyond or the great nothing. And you wasted the days ensuring that they were identical. What was the point of identical days, sitting quietly in your brown office, staring with your heavy eyes and gripping pens with your stern fingers. Every day. Every single-
Three Minutes More
-goddamn weekday of your life. Do you remember when you were just fourteen, writing in your diary for the first tike? You took so much pride in that. Never daring to skip a day because you never wanted the small days to dissolve into nothing. You used to surreptitiously flick through the thin white pages at night, dreaming of the book getting published once you were gone.
If you published a diary detailing the last forty years of your life, it'd be fucking dreadful.
January 12th 2054 - 49 years old. Your eyes squinted at the tv: yet another bombing in London. You stood up, straightened your tie and flattened your hair. You got ready and kissed your wife on the head as you walked out the door for work.
Traffic jams. Typing away at your brown office desk. Shifting uncomfortably at the rising chatter of the other stalls. You came home at 6pm, slumped your things in the corner, and played piano as darkness fell so you didn't feel like you had wasted the day.
January 12th 2055 - 50 years old. Your eyes squinted at the tv: yet another round of arrogant suits yelling at each other for something that everyone pretends to care about. You stood up, straightened your tie and flattened your hair. You got ready and kissed your wife on the head as you walked out the door for work.
Traffic jams. Typing away at your brown office desk. Shifting uncomfortably at the angry email you received from a clients. You came home at 6pm, slumped your things in the corner, and played piano as darkness fell so you didn't feel like you had wasted the day.
January 12th 2056 - 51 years old. Your eyes squinted at the tv: yet another accident on the motorway ; pedestrians and drivers killed. You stood up, straightened your tie and flattened your hair. You got ready and kissed your wife on the head as you walked out the door for work.
Roads closed off. Typing away at your brown office desk. Shifting uncomfortably at the emanating thought of the lives cut short at that car crash. You came home at 6pm, slumped your things in the corner, and cried yourself to sleep as darkness fell as you realised you wasted your life.
January 12th 2057 - 52 years old. Your eyes squinted at the tv: Yet another crashing star surrounded by pills. Your eyes shifted away from the screen. It seemed that dying heroes were dropping at your feet every month, crushed between the fingertips of the drugs they consumed. It was Sunday ; you wasted the day staring carelessly at the screen before dinner. Yet another pizza, alone whilst your wife was away. And at night, amongst the cold mattress, you prayed to God and played the piano so you felt you hadn't wasted the day.
January 12th 2058 - 54 years old. Your eyes squinted at the TV ; something awful probably. You went to work in your scruffy clothes and a stench-filled long, black car. Yet another forgotten day. You went home and listened to music, drinking apple juice until the night fell, when you could finally carry yourself upstairs and cry yourself to sleep, alone, in your silent house. Who would have wanted to be your cellmate in the first place?
January 12th 2060 - 15 years old. Your eyes squinted at the tv - the country's divided, nothing new. Your friend picked you up on your way to work in his black car. You had never seen that route before. You saw the park and, just for a second, it reminded you of how simple the world was when you were a kid. Even though you could barely remember anything about your childhood. Hell, you can't even remember what the rest of this day was.
January 12th 2064 - 72 years old. Your shaky hands presented themselves in the magic man's house after you had neglected it for so long. Amongst the others, you mumbled questions to him that you knew he would never answer.
January 12th 2069 - ?? years old.
God was on your mind as you sat in your chair, wasting the day.
January 12th 2069
God was on your mind as you stared out at the vicious clouds above, wasting away.
January 12th 2069
God was on your mind as you camped out in Cornwall like you used to do with your family, trying to feel again.
January 12th 2069
God was on your mind as you aggressively played piano, trying desperately to drown out the everlasting thought that you had wasted your life.
January 12th
God was on your mind. God was on your mind. God was on your mind. God was on your mind until nothing was on your mind.
A day repeated is a day wasted.
What makes you think you're going to heaven? ...And where did that thought come fr-
Two Minutes More
-om? But it's true though. Why would he want a nobody in his playhouse? Why would he want someone who questioned his existence in the back of his mind every day? And don't even deny it, I know everything about you. I mean, I don't blame you. It's the Great Beyond or the Great Nothing.
I know your thoughts. Your feelings. Everything you remember. Everything you forgot. And boy, you forgot so much.
Can you remember all the things you did when you were five? Probably park and church. But you can't remember. What did you do on your seventh birthday? Just think of all the kids you met on those summer trips that you never ever saw again. Those meaningless plastic gold trophies you earned when you were eight, now stashed away in some abandoned garage. What did they serve you? Do you even remember what you got them for? It would've felt good at the time, but when it really comes down to it, all of your achievements were for nothing.
The Braindead Nihilist. Dead before his body hits the ground. Where did the wasted time go?
Remember the school you went to? What a fucking waste. Can you remember anything we learned? Of course not. You can barely recognise the names of most of your classmates, let alone the knowledge that was supposed to motivate you to become a functioning member of society. You needed it to be somebody and you barely got halfway. What a waste of eighteen years of your life.
Your favourite bands back in the day, even the ones who fell too early. Music used to be your life before it turned into nothing but confetti, shoved in the background as you slaved away in your job. Now you'd rather listen to the slowly decaying world on the news than the flavour of the air.
What about the first time you witnessed death? I mean, really witnessed death. Your first dog. The one who passed away when you were just fifteen. The one you couldn't bare to think about towards the end because his fur had become frail and gray, his eyes were blind and confused and you could see his ribs poking through your best friend. On his death day, you could barely cope. You just wept for weeks on end over that poor dog. Because it was your dog. The dog that tilted his head when you rubbed his ears ; the one that excitedly pranced around the kitchen floor whenever you brought him water. The dog that coincidentally fell into a slumber next to your face the night before you got your braces. He must've known you were so petrified.
His name was George, by the way. I know you forgot. Now his name is nothing but a floating memory, occasional confetti to your thoughts. A rotting nothing. You're probably the only one who barely remembers him, his bloody life in your wrinkled hands. When you disappear, it'll be like he never existed. Like a blinded kamikaze pilot, you'll crash and take the memories with you.
It's like nothing matters. What was the point of all that filler in your mid life when you so easily forgot everything? A day forgotten is a day wasted.
All your achievements were for nothing. All your memories were pointless. Every tiny conversation that served no purpose, every joke with your friends that you'll leave behind on your death bed, every Saturday night spent with your parents...
Hell, what is this conversation even for? I already know everything. What does it matter?
You'll be dead in one minute more anyway.
One Minute More
I try, I really do. Your old mind tries to reminisce back to the good old days where nothing ever mattered and you never got caught up on the ways of the world. But I always just kept coming back to those times your body spent stationary in hospital. The surgeries, your slowing heart, the less frequent visits. Wanting to cry once you knew you couldn't do anything by yourself. The confusion when I slowly left behind everything you knew, sucking everything dry to the point that your lifeless eyes couldn't even remember who you were talking to. Well I remembered now, in the slow pulse of life before The Great Beyond or The Great Nothing.
They say once your heart stops beating and your body gives up, the brain activity continues for about seven minutes, and it was supposed to be a blussful opportunity to play your greatest memories back in a dream sequence before I drown. If that's true, we wasted six of them beating ourselves up on wasting everything. Pondering on what might have been. It's pathetic.
What about all the good times? Swinging and running around carelessly in the vibrant park, engulfed in the mercy of spring. Confidently singing in church every Sunday, not for fear of the great nothing, but more because it felt like the only thing that gave your life a meaning. A purpose. Giggling uncontrollably as you wrapped your arms around that girl, time freezing still in the frosty air as you held her tight, wondering when you'd be willing to let go. The inside jokes with your co workers ; messing with each other's staplers when we worked long hours. You loved them all so much.
Playing with your dog. Listening to music on the computer every day with your dad. The relief of those weekly visits to the hospital. they didn't forget you then.
But they will eventually. That's what truly haunts you, isn't it? At first Within, they'll all weep for you. But within a few decades, it'll be like you never existed at all. Everything you achieved will be for nothing. All your friends'll immortalise the tiny thoughts that run their lives whilst your grey gravestone rots.
But it's not about them. It's about you and the time you spent with it. It was all worth it just to add a little bit of colour to your meaningless world. Everything was better when you cared less.
How do animals do it? You never see them living out their doomed lives shaken and terrified of the day their fur turns to bones. No. They just hunt, and eat, and sleep and mate until they can't anymore. That's a perfect life. Why don't we do that instead of partaking in an endless race to save our names for a few more years? We will never be immortal. And yet death has its icy grip on the entire world, controlling us like we're mindless, helpless puppets.
The whole world runs on the fear of death. You can guarantee that everything in the world was only invented to distract from the fact that we are nothing, and we will die. Hell, even God was probably invented for fear of death. And who can blame anyone?
What do you see right now? Darker than your eyelids, lighter than the recognisable darkness. It's nothing. Now imagine seeing that for all of eternity. Do you know what it feels like to not exist? To be dead? I don't, and it's fucking terrifying.
And so you lay here, your body dead, your mind feeding you stories until the one minute's up. If God (if that's his real name) is real, why didn't he stop your death?
Oh, who are you kidding? In what doomed world would the magic man waste his time saving not even a droplet in the ocean? You aren't important. You weren't special. None of your thoughts are yours.
God save all of us. It's that or The Great Nothing.
GOD SAVE make ALL OF them US stop.
Am I doing my screaming thoughts justice yet? Will I be cured for screaming my fears out?
Not One Moment More
Godsaveallofuseventhoughwearenothing,andsoonyouwillbenothingmorethansomeworthlesscorpseinthegroundorwhereverwe'regoing;thegreatbeyondorthegreatnothingTheGreatNothingstaresusallintheface,consumingourmemoriesandourdyingthoughtsandIdon'twannadieinnotonemomentmoremakeitstopyoucould'vemadeyourmarkthat'swhatthiswholebookisabout;younevercaredaboutstory,youjustwantedtohaveyournameonabooksoyournamecouldactuallymeansomethingafteryou'veleftthissped-upworldanditprobablyisn'tgoodenoughtohaveyournameoneither;whothefuckisgonnawannareadyourhorrificclusterofthoughtsohwow,he'stalkingtohisbrainandhe'sgonnadie,sooriginal.Asifthisideahadn'tbeensparkedathousanddifferenttimeswithathousandbetterauthors;itsallbeendone.youwastedyourlifeandyouwillnevercreatesomethingoriginalinyourentirelifebecauseyouaren'tspecial.EventheoneinamillionhasseventhousandpeoplejustlikethemGodSaveAllOfUscallthistheAnthemforDoomedSpecies,existingwithnothingandnothingmore;allthoseholidaystoforeigncountrieswithyourfamily;theconcertsthattookyourbreathaway,thebiggrinonyourfacewheneveryouhungoutwithyour friendslifeispointlessbutworthitifonlyIwasn'tpanickinghalfthetimemostofthetimeAllofthetime.Everytimeyoustareatyourbeautifuldog,whyisitthatallthatyouareremindedofisthathe'sgonnadiesoon?Thiscorruptworlddid nothingforyouandyoudidnothingfortheworldyoucould'vedonesomethinghelpfulorsavedtheplanetordomorecharitywork;youchosetobeanothing,thisisyourownfaultandwhenwilltheworldstopcoweringindeath'sshadow?Notthati'mmuchlessofacowardbuteverythingisrunoutoffearoffadingawayintonothing;wetellourselvesthatwiththerightdietandexercise,we'llliveforever.butwewon't.YOUWON'TLIVEFOREVER.Andinafewyearstime,somerottinggravestonewillbetheonlyproofthatIexistedGodsaveallofustheendhasnoend.Asaspecies,we'll keep being born,reproducinganddyingaloneforsevencenturiesmoreuntilwecan'ttakeitanymorebutit'sokaytoleave.you'vedoneyourpart.EverythingWillBeAlrightInTheEnd;yourdeathbedisgettingwarm.Goon,it'sfinenobodywillcare.Go,butwhereto?Wheredoyouthink you'regoingToTheGreatBeyondMAKETHEMSTOPorTheGreatNoth-
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