Money In His Hand II

Life is short. It's even shorter where it's spent not living. That's what I've been doing the past four years, since her death. I don't realize, still, how precious my own self is. Everyone else can go fuck themselves, because in the end all we can do is care for ourselves. I'm all that matters.

I've spent all my life running away from death, but only because I taunt it in the first place. I save people from death without even realizing that doing so endangers my own self. And why do that, if it does no good in the end? The Fears always, somehow, find a way; even if they wait years to pull it off. 

I know this because I've been running myself. And you know what? I'm done with shit. No more no more. I'm getting the fuck out of this life. I'm going to live it alone in peace. 

Without being haunted by the past, whether it's living or dead. 

Success does come from material things. Love does come from shallow aspects. Happiness can be bought. These vague fantasies do nothing but torture us from the inside out. What I need, is wealth and power. 

I may feel empty, but at least I won't be tortured any longer.  

I'm the only thing that matters because nothing else inherently matters. So what if another kid dies? So what? So what if humanity is doomed? So what? So what? 

Why should I care, let alone do anything about it? 

And most importantly of all: Why should I care about someone who's gone? Someone who's not even rotting away in the ground, but is totally, absolutely gone? Why? Why does she matter now? Why does anyone matter to me anymore? 

I'm wondering because I am actually curious about this. I'm wondering because it kept me up at night for four years. I worried and worried, but the answer was inside of me all along: my heart.

My heart is beating still. It's working. And that's what matters. Not what it yearns for, but what keeps it beating. What keeps me alive. What keeps me sane. What keeps me me.

I'm quitting you, Holly. You're dead now. Truly, dead. Just like how one would burn away old photos, I'm burning away my memories of you. And I'm going to scatter the ashes, so that I will never find even a trace of your existence within myself.

I'm done with dreaming of the past. The past is past, the past is dead, I'm done with the past. 

It's not the heart that makes the man, it's the money in his hand.