Dear Life

A letter to the thing that holds us all.

Dear Life,

Where to begin? You've known me the longest, perhaps even longer. Who can tell. And in your twisted arms I lay. From the first second, the first drop of light. Everything mine is yours, and everything I have, you gave. 

Am I grateful? Yes, for some. But you are not fair, you are not kind, and you can never truly be trusted. Putting my faith in you entirely would be to die. You will not save me, not hold me. And maybe you can't help it, perhaps there are forces outside your control. You are all that we know, and so all that we understand. 

Perhaps we are gifts, and when the time comes, you send us to Death, and he keeps them forever. But if that were the case, why are you so harsh? Equality is a word, not a world. It is you who has caused us pain, hatred, suffering. Perhaps you are like angels are, incapable of emotion, greater than anything, but without empathy, without love. Or perhaps I am wrong, and we are the weak ones, pettily holding fragile moments we cannot keep. But our emotions were born upon us. By you.

Life, you sick bastard, you'll hold my hand, and soothe and comfort, then plunge me into icy waters, blowing out the candle over which I warm my hands. And you come without explanation, no reason, or justice. 

"We hold our shattered memories, and choose to sink, instead of dropping them and swimming" You taught me that, humanity taught me that.

But you are not all bad, no. I am not writing to condone you, for without you, what would we be? What would time be? How could time be? 
In the war of wills, you have taught us to be strong, you have taught us to survive. You were never a kind teacher, but we learnt. And, granted, there are times when I forget it all, when I see what you have done, and I only want to thank you. For what I have, for it all. Because without your pain, we'd never know love, so it doesn't matter what you do, we find a way. 

And there are moments, sometimes so fleeting, so... seemingly meaningless, that become memories of gold. When I know that nothing should be different, nothing should be changed. 
You'll change it anyway, you always do. And it's almost ironic, why do I waste my time, writing to someone who'd never give it a moments thought?
It's just a game to you, our momentary existences are heartbeats to you. My words have no effect on you, but somewhere they might. You can't help but wonder.

I don't expect you to reply, after all, you never do.

The End

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