The Graveyard

There, I live. Buried under tons of depression, fear, anxiety, doubts, guilt and sorrow. Far enough you could see my name carved in italic and bold, and it never mattered how it’d look closer. THE FREEDOM, they called it. Whenever I tried to escape that FREEDOM, the jailer, or better said, the jailers, poured more and more of FREEDOM over the already existing tons that weighed heavily, heavier than I can endure. I gave up. By then, I found me burying myself.

I couldn't endure and I had no power to escape. But I ought to. I reached a settlement, I’d dig, at night, a tunnel through that load, till I find a beam of light. I held each and every molecule of courage. I learned not to make assumptions nor to expect, though I expected much and I didn't know why.

Years passed, more tons were poured, and I dug much more. I never gave up on this trail and I shall never do. I’ll escape from that death land, and its inhabitants that sanctify nothing but the graveyards they built.

A Living

I recognized a face wandering in the horizon, yelled at: “HELLO!”
A scream followed by “WELCOME” then a severe silence.
I was terribly afraid; “Keep calm, keep calm, Ghosts only exist in fairy-tales.” I then asked; “Who are you?”
“Zombie, I’d love to be called zombie.” the sound replied calmly.
My heart beat faster, sweated heavily and screamed out load searching for help.
It yelled, “Afraid?!”
I didn't reply.
“Don’t get afraid, Zombies don’t fear each other.”
A severe moment of extreme silence, when I couldn't recognize my heartbeats.
“Whah-at do y-you mean by a zom-bie” I replied, then I followed aggressively as if that fear has dimensioned in a moment, “I’m not a zombie, I’m a living! A living!”
“Then how can you recognize me?” The sound replied, coldly.
“I’m a living, a living, a living” My voice fainted, and that fear grew again.
I touched my face, eye and took a deep breathe just to make sure, I did exist!
“Your breath doesn't make you a living”
“HOW! Who are you?”
“I told you before, you forgot that easily. Oh sorry pal, you haven’t got a good memory. Call me zombie.”
“Dead?!”
“You, Alive? That might be a better question.”
Silence again.
It then continued; “It appears that life itself hates being a life, it might have wanted to be death, but it was obliged to play that role. Through ages, people have lived a finite death, they've enjoyed screaming, crying, torture and that bits of happiness that strengthen the meaning of sorrow. We, humans, would have never felt the meaning of sorrow without those moments of extreme ecstasy, those moments that raise up high, till the sky, then grave us deep. That’s not a life, a breathing death maybe, and we are not livings, we’re zombies, zombies named by humans.”
“You know what? We all die till the moment that life vanishes, we, almost all of us, accept the fact that the best part of this life, is just it ends. Don’t you seek that end too?”
“Yes.” I replied then silenced.