Wish me a birthday, tell me more of my death.

I wonder sometimes, standing on the beach next to the hospital I work at -
What really is the difference between me, and one of the rocks on the shore?

The stone has seen a great many millennia pass, and I'll see a fraction of one. And when I am dead, my atoms shall lie on the bed of an ocean, with a story to tell.
Does the stone have stories to tell?

Time passes us both by, and our stories make little ripples on its fabric, and will fade into eventual oblivion.
I am merely a stone, experiencing time pass through me.

When you are me, today, 26 years have passed you by.
You happen to be a chain smoker, and often wonder why humans want to live.
Because you struggle with it. You no longer truly want to live.

When you are me, today, you've spent the last 10 years battling depression, anxiety, and,
and the cruel, inexplicable chaos, that the human experience is.

When you are me, today, you feel like you've lived every major experience that fellow creatures swear by.
Hope, is a big little word. And when you are me, today, you have very little of it left anymore.

So, you decide that life is like an aeroplane flight, with one destination - death.
And you decide to create a website, a journal.

You secretly hope that some rancid silicon valley asshole will believe that this can be monetized,
and ergo, on some server on this wretched planet -
Your blackbox will outlive your flight. Information, as some nerd wisely said, is fuckall indestructible.