He fell to his knees, using the last bit of strength he possessed to question his fate. Once upon a time, we would have burned his body, helping him find the path to the Sun. But those times have since passed. Now all we do is look on, questioning when our time will come. And that is what I did, staring at his body and the others nearby him. The last remaining priests would soon appear, calling forth the strongest to help move them to the side. They would perhaps burn their bodies. Or perhaps they won’t.525Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeY2zOwRUK5
I have lost friends and family. I’ve seen people fall and not know their names, as well as those who I knew everything about. They all fall the same. We all fall the same.
The children are crying now, terrified that they’ll be next. I was once like them, now I silently count the days. Each day I write, is another day of life. The adults are now crying. It scares me to watch them do so. And so I look away, I ignore them and try to tell myself that they are celebrating death. That I what we used to do. Death used to be a good thing, a time of celebration.
Mother told me to write, she said it’ll bring me great comfort. She said I won’t feel alone anymore and that it would help me cope. And so I did. I wrote everything I saw, and everything I felt. I knew I wasn’t the best writer but I tried my best. I wrote as if I was the one to tell our story.
Mother died. I did not write about it.
Father died soon after, and so did my cousins. Now there was only my grandparents and me. I wait for the day that we all fall. My grandparents scold me on that, they said that I shouldn’t think that way. But I know they will fall to. We all wait for that day where we look to the Sun and ask him, one last time, why.
A few of us fall each day. Sometimes none of us do. But soon none of us will stand. Not me, not the priests, not my grandparents.
But the day is beginning to end, I can’t write in the dark. I wait for tomorrow, to see which lives it will take. Perhaps this will be the last thing I write. Perhaps I won’t wake up. But something tells me I will, and I will again write.
I no longer wish to write.
He fell to his knees, using the last bit of strength he possessed to question his fate. Once upon a time, we would have burned his body, helping him find the path to the Sun. But those times have since passed. Now all we do is look on, questioning when our time will come. And that is what I did, staring at his body and the others nearby him. The last remaining priests would soon appear, calling forth the strongest to help move them to the side. They would perhaps burn their bodies. Or perhaps they won’t.
I have lost friends and family. I’ve seen people fall and not know their names, as well as those who I knew everything about. They all fall the same. We all fall the same.
The children are crying now, terrified that they’ll be next. I was once like them, now I silently count the days. Each day I write, is another day of life. The adults are now crying. It scares me to watch them do so. And so I look away, I ignore them and try to tell myself that they are celebrating death. That I what we used to do. Death used to be a good thing, a time of celebration.
Mother told me to write, she said it’ll bring me great comfort. She said I won’t feel alone anymore and that it would help me cope. And so I did. I wrote everything I saw, and everything I felt. I knew I wasn’t the best writer but I tried my best. I wrote as if I was the one to tell our story.
Mother died. I did not write about it.
Father died soon after, and so did my cousins. Now there was only my grandparents and me. I wait for the day that we all fall. My grandparents scold me on that, they said that I shouldn’t think that way. But I know they will fall to. We all wait for that day where we look to the Sun and ask him, one last time, why.
A few of us fall each day. Sometimes none of us do. But soon none of us will stand. Not me, not the priests, not my grandparents.
But the day is beginning to end, I can’t write in the dark. I wait for tomorrow, to see which lives it will take. Perhaps this will be the last thing I write. Perhaps I won’t wake up. But something tells me I will, and I will again write.
I no longer wish to write.
ns 15.158.61.42da2
