I often find myself wondering why the best people die. Yet if I were to walk into a garden, sans hesitation, I would pick the most beautiful flowers.
From the second we’re born, we’re waiting to die. The time span of ones’ life being uncertain can either be seen as beautiful, a tragedy, or a beautiful tragedy. Some are born, unknowingly with merely a pocket watch of time in this realm- others with a handful of clocks.
But it’s the footprints we leave in others lives as this invisible timer with a number we don’t know ticks, and ticks, and ticks- THAT has me walking in circles. Why are the lucky ones granted more time? Or are we even the lucky ones?
You grow old just to watch everyone around you die. You sit back and wilt as every beautiful rose, tulip, dandelion, sunflower, and daisy are plucked from the garden. You’re now a weed, in an empty basin of dirt, wondering what was so beautiful about having the longest invisible timer.
Is the agony and suffering of watching every domino topple worth the glory of being the last domino standing? How is the glory even celebratory if you’re all alone?
So I ask myself, again- why do all of the best people die? But “best” is all about perspective, and maybe I’m the next “best” for someone else. I’ve been the flower, in my own garden; watching the prettier ones get picked one by one as I shrivel slowly. Little do I know, with a switch of perspective I could very well be the next rose to die in someone else’s garden as they get the “privilege” of wilting a little longer than me.
And it’s all just a waiting game.. You’re either alive, rotting inside as those around you are stripped one by one or you’re dead, unbothered as to if all the other dominos fell. So who’s really living? Who’s really lucky here?
Kind of ironic we make sure funerals have beautiful flowers.
I dream of a party at four in the morning.
While the world sleeps restlessly in bed.
I’d pour over stories of simplistic joy, drunk in fantasy of how that could’ve been me.
While bills stack higher on the kitchen island as I pirouette and grand jete to unheard music and laugh the ugly laughs that make people fall in love with you.
But the room is empty- saving space for unspoken dreams and what could’ve been.
When you’re up late with your wishes as they’re crushed by the pertinent wants of others- the best company is none at all.
Party. Of one.
I dream of only being alive when the moon is up- remembering a night long ago where I lie under its glow and fell in love with an ugly laugh belonging to someone else.
As the moon departs, it takes the party with it. As the sun arrives, I am suddenly so very tired.
Hopefully I don’t wake up with a hangover.
