The Boy Who Dared Oblivion

I won’t be remembered.
Maybe that’s the truth.
Maybe the chaos I leave behind
will be the only proof
that I was ever here.

The lights are never enough.
They glow, they shine,
but they don’t warm the parts of me
that feel cold at night.

Reality is heavy.
And rising ,
rising is heavier.
Climbing heights sounds beautiful
until your lungs begin to burn.

I may die.
Yes… may.
Because “will” belongs to certainty,
and certainty belongs only
to a universe that knows its own ending.
This one doesn’t.

Clear the heights.
Wipe the glass.
Look through the window.
See the stars ,
twinkling like questions
that refuse to answer themselves.

Is that light mine?
Or is it just my reflection
pretending to be destiny?

Sometimes it feels okay
to be dead inside.
Not dramatic.
Not poetic.
Just quiet.

Because maybe there is no depth.
Maybe we invented depth
to make drowning sound meaningful.

Creative thinking.
Rational thinking.
We worship both
like they are gods ,
maybe they’re just tools
trying to fix a crack
in something much bigger than us.

Bear with me.
I’m still building this world.
Untold stories sit inside my chest.
Unheard conversations
echo in rooms that were never built.

I am a boy
writing this universe
with trembling hands.
And you somewhere,
in another universe 
reading it.

Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe being read
is another way
of being remembered.