The Boy Who Dared Oblivion

I will not be remembered.
Maybe that is the truth
I keep running from.
Maybe the chaos I leave behind
will be the only proof
that I was ever here at all.


The lights are never enough.
They shine brightly,
they look beautiful,
but they do not warm the places inside me that feel cold at night.

Reality is heavy.
And rising is even heavier.
Climbing heights sounds inspiring
until your chest tightens
and your lungs begin to burn.

I may die.
Yes, may.

Because "will" belongs to certainty,
and certainty belongs only to a universe
that already knows how its story ends.

This one does not.
Clear the height.
Wipe the glass clean.

Look outside the window.
The stars are still there,
twinkling like unanswered questions
that refuse to explain themselves.

Is that light truly mine,
or is it only my reflection
pretending to be destiny?

Sometimes it feels acceptable
to be dead inside.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not in a poetic way.
Just in a quiet, tired way.

Because maybe there is no real depth.
Maybe we invented the idea of depth
just to make drowning feel meaningful.


Creative thinking.
Rational thinking.
We treat them like gods.
We worship them as
if they hold every answer.
But maybe they are only tools,
trying to repair a crack
in something far greater than us.


Stay with me for a moment.
I am still building this world.
There are stories inside my chest
that have never been told.


There are conversations
that echo in rooms 
that were never built.
I am just a boy
writing an entire universe
with hands that sometimes tremble.


And you, somewhere in another universe,
are reading these words.
Maybe that is enough.
Maybe being read
is another form of being remembered.