goya 42.jpg

the end

By Matthew W.F. Senior

you are breathtaking. i'm running as fast as my mind will let me. they told me it only gets better. they lied. i know we're only human, but we feel... i feel - the same way you showed me. look up, watch me fly, everything is reflected behind my eyes; that's where we live forever. and i really tried. just listen to your heart over your head, before it's too fucking late. it's not worth it, one hundred years seems like forever, but it really isn't. be yourself and don't let people get in the way of your goals. stand up for your truth. express yourself, no matter the cost. i think back to the very first time that i met particular people. i think about the words and emotions that we traded, and how that always changes over time... please, remember me at my best - the moments when i made you feel something. when i made you feel safe. i promise you that everything will be okay. you know i wanted to do as much as i could first. for you all. it's so inspiring and transcendent, being provided with vivid, beautiful memories, that you can remember for the longest time; you can think about them whenever you feel empty, and instantly feel better knowing that you are never genuinely alone. it was all planned ahead, years in advance - but it wasn't supposed to be like this. i tried so hard to be selfless, but i broke my word. it takes courage to admit, but i believe that i'm a genuinely bad person; i am a person. i'll never get the opportunity to be a father. and i'll never get the chance to treat somebody like they're the most important person in the world, or to tell them every single day how much they mean to me. these are things that i do not deserve.

 

it's so surreal,

trapped in this moment now.

sirens cutting through me.

the cold wind hitting my skin.

the rain... i can hear it. i can feel it.

my stomach moves,

my mind stays still.

there is a blinding light shining.

i blink and the world is dark for a moment;

and i am in that moment. forever,

all love,

 

m x

This was written in conjunction with the short film 'goya'.

At the time, immersed in a temporary darkness, I believed that this would be the last time ink would flow.

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