As the Beatles song goes, “And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make.” In my case, it seems to be that in the end, the love you make, is disproportionately sized to the amount of love that’s taken from me. In the end, when people surround my grave, I hope there are plenty of people there. More so, I hope that they can each think of something nice or fun-loving to say about me or their experience with me. When I think about the future, it never involves friends, it never involves fun; it’s always me, alone, in a house, sitting on a chair: an empty white room. What horrible posture I have, too. But I just hope that when my time is over, and I’m out for good, someone steps up and reminds the world, and the small populous of people I’ve had an effect on, just what made them drawn to me in the first place.
Simply, I wish the world to smile, and laugh.
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