Fields turn to concrete turns to buildings turn to cities turn to dust. Everything in this world is finite. **** or be killed. We are malignant cells multiplying and dividing, incurable, unstoppable. Where we go, death and destruction follow. They're right behind us, pushing to get ahead.

All we touch turns to stone, a grave marker for the earth. We are burying ourselves with it. Ashes and bones are the thrones of the new world. We don't learn from our mistakes, we build upon them.

There is a thirst that cannot be quenched, a hunger that cannot be satisfied. We devour everything in sight, but remain empty. If this is what it means to be human, I'd rather be the mud stuck on the bottom of a shoe, the trash blowing away with the wind, the roadkill abandoned on the side of a highway.

Spring has come around once again and the earth is awakening. Green has been painted over yellow ground and the trees stretch their barren branches to the sky praying for new life. The birds dance across the endless blue skies, announcing their return. The days are getting longer. The sun's rays pierce through the clouds. On certain days, I swear I can feel the wind pass right through me, as if I am nothing more than a shadow, a ghost. How I wish it would pick me up and take me with it. I think something inside of me went to sleep for the winter and never woke back up. Cut me open, tear me apart, and you'll find that I am merely a hollow shell, abandoned.

It's as if someone has painted the windows black, but it is only night, and has been for as long as I can remember. I cannot recall if I have gotten out of this bed today or not. These legs of mine are getting tired of carrying around all the extra weight from too many heavy thoughts. I try to smoke them away, but I just keep breathing them all back in. These cigarettes might **** me, but not if I beat them to it. The years keep adding up, but nothing else does. I'm done hoping for things to get any better. They never do.

The sinking of the mid-afternoon sun has yet to lose its magic, but our eyes are unable to recognize the beauty of this world in our old (enough) age. Our surroundings have not changed, but they have changed us.

We close our eyes, blinded by the sun's reflection in the shallow pools of water on the side of the road. With each car we pass, we are getting farther away from a place we once called home. Shadows stretch from barren tree branches and highway signs trying to hold onto the last light of day, but coming up short.  We all come up short in this life.

Our efforts are never enough to stop this dying planet from spinning around the sun once more, but we still try to at least slow it down so we can finally exhale and let go of the air we've been holding in our blackened lungs since the day we were born

It all moves too fast. One minute you've got your whole life ahead of you, and the next you've somehow ended up stuck in a failing relationship or working a job you hate. You never thought you'd make it past high school, and now you're on your own wishing you hadn't.

We're all just wanting someone to stay up with us on the nights when sleep is the last thing on our minds, but we always end up alone, watching the horizon fade to black. The night sky is starless and as empty as we are. Nothing has changed, but nothing's the same. We didn't grow up to be what we thought we would. The sun sets, but we cannot. We will still be awake to greet it in the morning of the next day of our never ending, meaningless lives.

As I am lying in my tree house alone on a Friday night, thoughts of death dance through my mind. I am shrouded in the dark of a starless sky, but unprotected from the sudden gusts of harsh winter wind that eat away at my exposed flesh. The cold of the outside world seems so irrelevant compared to the inside. Loneliness has found its home in this vacant heart of mine. The emptiness sinks in slowly, a little more with each blinding flash of headlights that pass by my driveway. The reality of the situation is that I come out here to be alone because I feel the most isolated when I am surrounded by people.

The harsh winter winds have returned, bringing with them memories of past times and places. Beauty has yet to be found in the frozen world around as the cold strangles anything left living. Night has overtaken day and we are surrounded in darkness, save for the hazy glow of the streetlamps. Snow falls silently, dressing the desolate city streets in white. Shelter is sought and found by the fortunate while others wither away on the pavement. This season is one of loneliness, for the emptiness swallows all whole. I have yet to know if I shall see the light of day again.

Back when I was a kid, the stretch of empty wasteland under a cloudless sky was my entire world. The sun was always out, beating down hot on my neck, and minus the occasional break, the cars kept on coming and the people kept on going. I hadn't yet a reason to believe that the highways had an end. I figured that if I kept walking, I'd somehow make it back to where I started. I never considered the possibility that I would run out of places to search for whatever it is I was looking for. If I would have known that nothing is infinite, I might have taken the time to remember the things I thought it wouldn't matter to forget.