Walking Dead

Here I am—the walking dead. Hollow and soulless. I used to be invincible and fearless. Now I am nothing. I am nothing to anyone. I have no purpose. I have no light. I have no value, no worth. I am nothing.

There comes a time to give up, but the drive to fight continues. If only I had the means, I wouldn’t be here any longer. Many would breathe a sigh of relief that they no longer have to deal with me—no longer have to fear what I know and how it might look to others.

Walking dead. That is all that is left of me. I used to be somebody. There used to be something in me that people could love. That’s gone now. I’m gone now. I can never come back. I have nothing and I have no one. They took it all away from me.

I’m dead and I don’t even get the peace and solitude of a cold unmarked grave. I have to keep staying upright and being part of a world that has nothing for me, regrets nothing it’s done to me, and would rather see me dead.

I would be just a faint memory of a face once seen every day. Someone who used to be loved.

A musing: “I wonder whatever happened to her?” That person. That being. The person who was once an unmistakable force of love and light—and never let anyone feel unheard, unseen, or unloved.

A wise man once said to me: “What does it matter what I did? You’ve got one foot out the door on life anyway.”