We don’t deserve this planet, and she knows it. She’s watched us pave the orchards, drain the rivers like warm beer, name every mountain after a man who never climbed it.
But still she throws a sunrise like dice and lets light land on all of us. Even the bastards.
The trees don’t fret who planted them. They just grow. The birds don’t care who’s listening. They just sing.
And the dirt? The dirt keeps catching us when we fall face-first from our own cleverness.
She should’ve thrown us out like cigarette ash, but she keeps us around— maybe out of habit, maybe for the comedy.
Still, every now and then, a child plants a seed, a drunk returns a stray dog, a man writes a poem without knowing why.
And she sighs, a little softer, as if to say, “Close, kid. Try again tomorrow.”
They asked how long you’d like to live. You said, a little more. They all say more. As if forever were a sunrise you could pocket.
But forever is not light— it’s the absence of endings. No curtains. No finales. Just a sky so wide it forgets your name.
The faithful call it heaven, a kingdom without clocks, where no one dies and no one leaves. But even gardens rot when no one’s allowed to shut the gate.
You will pray for hunger. For grief. For something that hurts. Because hurt is proof you still belong to something fleeting.
But in forever, you outlive your gods. Outlast your sins. You become the last echo in a chapel that will not collapse. What is the reward in a story that caanot end?
