This world was happy once.
Remember? The good days? The happy ones? Before the world turned to rot and ruin and death and decay?
It was years ago. So, so long ago, and so far away in our minds now.
Sometimes, we don't remember. What it was like. What happened. Friends. Relatives. Family. Teachers. All of them. Gone to the new world.
And maybe it's better.
Maybe it's better when we don't think of old lives.
No comparisons. This is what it's always been like.
And if we pretend, it's all better.
Right?
Wrong.
It should help.
But it doesn't.
Never does.
Because if you try to remember and they come back and you think of the early days. When maybe there was a little bit of hope but we were all so lost, so afraid, so scattered.
Some people died.
Some people snapped.
Some people ran.
Some people broke.
Some people took to murder and violence.
You ran.
And maybe that kept you alive but where are you now? Lost? Alone? Taking to death as a way of life?
What good did it do?
Watching the children grow up in this world and not knowing, completely ignorant, of how things used to be? Maturing so quickly, staring at the dead so young and holding themselves just so differently. So cold.
Our homes are gone.
It doesn't matter if we have shelter somewhere else. It doesn't matter if our old towns are still standing and maybe your house is still there and it's so empty except for two people, two ghosts of people, but you can't bear the thought of them and want to end it, just end it, now but you know that's not right.
Maybe just a few more years.
Sometimes it's hard to find hope. For anything.
We lost this world. But maybe we can survive here for a while. Never reclaim, never grow to power, never be as careless as we were before.
But maybe we'll live. Maybe.
It doesn't matter if you're on your knees, completely gone and broken and just trying, just for this moment, just trying to hold on to the seconds as they pass by.
You hope.
And, god, you try.
Because there are choices. Were choices. And you messed up. So much. Thought wrong, thought rashly, tried to fix things that were impossible, and sometimes you gave in. Just sank to the ground and stared and, in that moment, didn't care.
And then you found yourself.
Because it doesn't really matter, does it? There are so many dead in this world, so many dead surrounding you, and there's no one left, just one person, and it doesn't matter that all you get from him is hate.
She took your hand. And you smiled. And maybe sometime she'll return that smile and her hair will flow in the wind the way it used to, and she won't look so tired and beaten down. But not today.
Because you were too late.
Maybe you should go home. Leave. Never come back.
Wherever that is.
But it's coming. The hill is raising out of the ground, and you're stumbling towards it and all in your sight is light and you don't feel it, none of it, and in that moment you're ready.
It's coming. A place where there's no more tears and love only helps, and there's grace in every heart and there's happiness everywhere. For everyone. No matter what you've done.
It's coming.
You'll see it when you're there.
Just get over this hill.
And you'll be there.