I don't want to die.

Death is so dramatic,
It changes plans and ruins days.
It affects more than one life.

No,
I want to disappear.

I want to one day be gone from the face of the planet,

the only hint that I ever was there in the sticker I gave my friend in kindergarten,
still stuck into a long forgotten notebook or a puppet.

The only memory left of me in the bag of someone who forgot to give back the pencil they borrowed.

The only trace of me,
in fading wet footprints on the sidewalk between puddles.


They say that when you die, you either go to heaven or to hell.

Or maybe you'll be incarnated into a delicate butterfly flapping its wings to the sound of a powerful stream.

Each believe in their own heaven,
imagining the perfect world for them.

And isn't that exciting?
That there's a life after death?


How do I explain, then, that my heaven is

the pitch blackness of the unending unconsciousness.

The quiet rest of the ground.

The forever closed eyes and

the stillness of the heart.


Living is the debt I pay for the world.
Why would I want to pay forever?


Someone once told me it sounds like I want to die and I said

No,
I want to disappear.