Have you ever wanted to stop existing before? Not die—no, that’s too…drastic. But to just cease existing. To have your presence wiped away like words on a blackboard and to leave the world unchanged, undisturbed— as though nothing had happened.
Well, I have, and as much as I want sometimes to just stop existing— I can’t.
Because I take up not a space, but many spaces in this world—unwittingly, involuntarily. I cannot help but exist with a complexity I sometimes wish I didn’t own. But I do.
I am the child, the friend, the person who smiles at you and nods in the middle of a conversation when everyone else has stopped paying attention. I am a random smile you catch in a crowd, the person who orders the same thing every Friday at the café you work at. I am a voice speaking a familiar tongue in a scary, foreign place. I am a face that looks like yours when you are frowned upon for looking the way you look. I am the novel I hold in the stuffed métro, the one that holds dear memories and has warmth gushing to your chest on that grey evening in the lonely, buzzing metropolis.
And when I go, I will leave all these spaces empty. And that will change the world in its own way.
So I cannot stop existing. I cannot go silently, and pretend to be going the way I came.
If I am here now, it is because I entered the world with a bang, with a piercing cry into the noisy world that said:
“Here I am.”
So if I can’t go quietly, if I can’t go without knocking over a few lives, then I should as well go the way I came, with a piercing cry into what they call the void, in a voice that says quite immaturely, quite laughably —like foolish lovers who carve their loves on unsuspecting tree trunks— something, something along the lines of
“I was here.”
And this is a cry the world will hear decades after I am gone: in my books, in my paintings, in my art.