The "Right" thing

There's the exestential ideals floating around my cranium driven by the words of a harmlessly dark book. Gunmetal sentances that shouldn't exist, do. They give me dreams of a silent world where nothing talks to me, where everything I know is gone. I think of what I would miss: music, art, people, books.

It made my heart ache. In a world where the was nothing left, I would not exist. I rely so heavily on the things around me that I don't know what would happen if one day it were gone. So now, all I can think is, "what would I be without them."

You hear stories all the time of amnesia, and you pity the people who suffer it, and must re-learn everything they ever knew. But what if it was a slow decay of memory, not from an illness, not from an injury, but from time. Just sit and think of a day that you would wake up, alone, and you would turn and look at a photo of you and your friends and all you recognize is your own face. You best friend, lover, parents, siblings, neighbors. Just beautiful faces surrounding you. You wouldn't feel bad because you wouldn't remember to feel bad about them.

It's a truely scary ideal, and I'm troubled thinking about it.

Read this book: "The Road" By: Cormac McCarthy

-D