Funeral pyre

Although it seems like all has been lost and all has been taken away, I know this thing in me won't stop until all has been laid waste. This thing in me wants to burn down this house, burn it to the ground, and laugh as the rain unsuccessfully tries to put it out. There will be ashes in place of me. There will be a new day, but I won't see it. 

There's a hate in me that's turned inward, tearing as it screams its way from bone to sinew, from organ to meat, from synapse to socket and back. It's furious, and it's tired and bored. There's nothing to see here but the end. And it will see it. 

The end is near for me. I feel it quivering in my chest. I feel it whispering on the wind. I hear the layman and the scholar alike tell of it. There's nothing left in this world I want to do. Nothing left I want to say. All my love has been taken away, replaced with a bitter and vile substance called life. 

When my world burns, I will feel a final warmth. When the roof falls down on me, I'll feel safe and sound. I won't see it for what it is, but rather the wounds of a friend. There will be no trumpet, no calamitous noise. It will be a silent inferno taking me away from this world. There are no big surprises here, just an ordinary, inevitable death. 

I wish I could say I died for something bigger than myself, but it was something small like a worm that ate away at me. It was like I spent my whole life trying to plug a hole but the hole got bigger and I got smaller and all those people took, took, took until I was taken away and hollow. 

Out of these ashes will come something. A lesson maybe. Another burden, perhaps. All I know is what is formed from those ashes will not look like the man looking back from the mirror today. That man is overdue for the grave. The new man may not look better, but he won't be the same. 

As sure as the wind will blow tonight, I will die. I am dying faster than I'm living. It's not catching up to me; it's caught me. I'm wondering now how much time I have, but it doesn't matter. The letting go hastens the coming, and we all fear the coming. And that storm is coming, son, faster and wilder than any storm before. This is your life — another tearing down, another inglorious burning down. 

What makes the thunder roar? He does. What makes the wind whine? He does. What makes me think I'm going to get away from this? Nothing, not anymore. I've wiggled and squirmed and run, dodged, ducked, hid myself away — all for nothing. And now I've given up. 

The wind is sharp tonight. There is dirt in my eyes, but that's okay; dirt is what I'm made of. And to the dirt, I will return.