Nothing matters.
I doubt I will get to live to a hundred.
Nothing matters.
I will be forgotten a hundred years after that.
Nothing matters.
I will rot away and my name will be forgotten.
Nothing matters.
I am only one of a hundred billions who have died.
That doesn’t matter; nothing matters.
No one will remember “Rose,”
Who was born in the 2000s,
Who hated herself,
And hated the world around her.
Rose will be a single name among so many others.
Roses wither too.
I am not alone with that name.
That doesn’t matter; nothing matters.
I walk in the cemetery.
Truly a beautiful place, is it not?
Nothing is calmer than the dead.
I envy them, sometimes.
They have no rules and no society.
They only have dust and rot.
I look at them and I wonder what they must think.
I only wish I knew their stories,
Like I wish everyone after me could know mine.
That doesn’t matter; nothing matters.
I look at myself.
I know that nothing matters and that I will be forgotten.
What seems such a priority will be nothing in not much longer.
No one will think of this day on their death bed.
I wonder why I care so much about people’s stares.
I know that I am finite and that I am therefore free.
So why do I care what others think?
And that’s when I realized.
No one fucking cares.
Everyone is too focused with their senseless fears to see mine.
I fear people see me; when they fear this too.
That doesn’t matter; nothing matters.
I won’t live to a hundred.
So I might as well have fun with it;
I will call myself how I want,
Wear the gothy dresses I want,
Say whatever words I want;|
And die however I want.
And if you want to judge?
Do whatever you want.
That doesn’t matter; nothing matters.
