rotten bananas and other tragedies

The decaying skin of some familiar fruit lays on the countertop. Its flesh spent like the shell of a bullet once its head has passed through someone or something. It's a rotting miasma: browning, molding, wrinkling, stinking. A Roost for the detritivores and other bottom-feeding beasts.

Disgust! Disgust! The whole sequence of decay used to fascinate me, but now I find in it nothing but disdain. I stare at the whole process feeling nothing but hate. I hate that this is the truth of our world. I hate that things cannot be perfect and beautiful forever.

I will love life until death. I will love life until it reminds me of death. I will partake in night and day and sun and moon and be content for a while, but when conclusion makes itself known (be it in browning banana-skins or a death in the family), I shall let myself harden with bitter resentment. I shall encase myself within an iceberg of hate, where I shall remain frozen until the day that the ending of things comes to an end.