interna
Gone Tomorrow, Here Today
- Dec 1, 2025
- 283
this is something i wrote regarding what i imagine for my last moments! i am very average at writing, but i hope it's enjoyable enough!
I find myself recognizing my one true desire, peace, whenever my ideal going out pops up in my head.
I observe myself, imagining green fields in sunny weather, and I pity my attachment to all things living. My body is slumped against the bark of a tree and dandelions and weeds alike decorate the grassy ground I brush my hands and legs upon. The ants roaming up and down the wood bargain with my uneasiness around insects. I take a moment to be uncomfortable, and I rest my head among the busy crawlies. In this daydream, too, I'm in the way.
I can see it by how I imagine the breeze gentle and the weather mild, by how the open field fails now to unnerve me – all I want is peace.
There's people near. I'm always near people. Farmhands, commuters, school kids – I'd always be facing them, and they'd barely acknowledge me: I watch them go on about their day and little else. If I focus too much on others, the sky turns gray, and the scene becomes one of further alienation. Focusing on the sound of people living, however, is soothing to me. I'm split: my daydream takes place in the countryside, but I yearn for the liveliness of the city. Some mice are both.
I am petting something, but I do not know what; perhaps it is the grass blades just in reach of my fingers. I grow weary. I grow preoccupied. I am me, still, after all. But I am content. I am content. That much is important.
A sigh is let out as I bring my knees to my chest, yanking my head down towards them and wrapping my arms around my legs. I've admired enough. Once I stand, dust is kicked up. It's a scene of being alive, one knows. At the end, life is what I'd pictured. It's a scene of thought.
I go then, with an action private. It's only reasonable; what else could I have sought?
I find myself recognizing my one true desire, peace, whenever my ideal going out pops up in my head.
I observe myself, imagining green fields in sunny weather, and I pity my attachment to all things living. My body is slumped against the bark of a tree and dandelions and weeds alike decorate the grassy ground I brush my hands and legs upon. The ants roaming up and down the wood bargain with my uneasiness around insects. I take a moment to be uncomfortable, and I rest my head among the busy crawlies. In this daydream, too, I'm in the way.
I can see it by how I imagine the breeze gentle and the weather mild, by how the open field fails now to unnerve me – all I want is peace.
There's people near. I'm always near people. Farmhands, commuters, school kids – I'd always be facing them, and they'd barely acknowledge me: I watch them go on about their day and little else. If I focus too much on others, the sky turns gray, and the scene becomes one of further alienation. Focusing on the sound of people living, however, is soothing to me. I'm split: my daydream takes place in the countryside, but I yearn for the liveliness of the city. Some mice are both.
I am petting something, but I do not know what; perhaps it is the grass blades just in reach of my fingers. I grow weary. I grow preoccupied. I am me, still, after all. But I am content. I am content. That much is important.
A sigh is let out as I bring my knees to my chest, yanking my head down towards them and wrapping my arms around my legs. I've admired enough. Once I stand, dust is kicked up. It's a scene of being alive, one knows. At the end, life is what I'd pictured. It's a scene of thought.
I go then, with an action private. It's only reasonable; what else could I have sought?
