The Corridor of Quiet Deaths

I walk through a corridor lit dimly with flickers of fading selves.

Each door I pass holds a former version of me

a girl who once dreamed without bruises,

a woman who loved with a hunger that starved her,

a warrior who fell asleep in battle, not from wounds,

but from the silence of being unheard.

They call these moments death,

not of body, but of meaning.

Each heartbreak, betrayal, disillusion

a psychological funeral draped in invisible veils.

The mind dies a thousand times

before the body surrenders even once.

And so I live surrounded by my own ghosts

wise, weeping, watchful.

Yet I keep walking.

Not towards hope, nor away from pain

but with a quiet knowing:

real death waits at the end of this corridor,

patient and indifferent,

ready to consume not just my thoughts,

but the thinker himself.

Until then,

I mourn and move.

I die and resurrect in whispers.

All deaths are psychological

until Death finally learns my name.