aubade
The end of the story is where the sense comes in, or so I'm told. Never having been there, I can't speak from personal experience. Sounds boring, though. I could be wrong—like I said, it's all just hearsay anyway. Is it so wrong? Yes.
It eludes me, history—my own, and that of others around me. I am lost in its shadow. It knows me but I am ignorant of it.
These are the words they carved into his headstone. The letters would dull with time, but the words would stay.
I wonder why I'm writing on this again, but it doesn't matter. Wonder. Wonder. One duration, one time during which I didn't ask questions, when I let everything go and lay on the damp concrete walkway under the stars and trees and basked. Then I went back into the hospital.
Wonder befuddles me. That seems obvious, or maybe counter-intuitive—I don't know which. I wonder which. I want to read Sagan and Dawkins and have things make sense, but anything that makes sense just makes me wonder more. Every answer presents new paths, and I don't have the time or energy or brainspace to follow them all.