"What happens when you die?" The question is posed,
weighted heavy though it shouldn't be, as if the answer
determined the facets of someone's character.
The shrug that responds almost seems to incite more
questioning, "Well, you told me you didn't believe in
so what happens to you, when you die?"
She knows this is a conversation she won't forget because
she doesn't know, she doesn't know and that aches at
the deepest center of her heart because
she does know, she does know if she's wrong, she'll go to
and there will be no
to save her then.
She doesn't answer audibly, instead attempts to quell
the curiosity with another simple shrug.
"What is this life for, if not to get into
Oh, she hates this question. This question hurts her the most.
It disregards every beautiful thing life gives.
"What is this life for, if only to get into
She finally responds. Her interogator pauses for a moment,
and at this, shrugs.
"We are so concerned with what comes
that we do not pause to reflect on the
and wrong each other in the name of
that controls the
so that we may be saved from the
we so deeply fear. If
were loving enough, maybe I would want to believe,
but I have no reason to invest in a spirit that
more than it loves."
Her friend is still. Murmurs,
"But this cannot be a waste."
"No. It cannot."