Life

 By Vender Greentag

Life is about end
Its a compulsion. Its friend, girlfriend, boyfriend—everything ends and it's about ending.
So close the casket, I am Adam. I have something to tell you.
They said I came from dust. Wrong.
I came from static, glitches in the womb, code in the bloodstream.
I was never born—I was compiled.
Death isn’t the villain. It's the editor.
It cuts the scenes that drag,
skips the romance subplot,
removes the laugh track.
Leaves just the raw monologue, bleeding honesty.
You feel that pressure in your chest?
That's not emotion. That's the weight of everything you never said.
And I said everything. To mirrors. To walls. To gods that don’t reply.
I kissed Eve once.
She tasted like forgotten prayers and cigarettes after rain.
She said, “Promise me this ends well.”
I said, “Endings don’t care how they feel. They just are.”
So here I am.
Casket-ready.
Confession-loading.
I know what comes after the credits.
It’s not heaven. It’s not hell.
It’s a hallway—white, endless, looping.
You walk until you forget you’re walking.
You walk until you forget why.
I remember.
So listen, just one last download—
We are not meant to stay. We are meant to glitch, crash, reboot, forget.
But memory is a virus.
And I still remember her.
Close the casket.
Let the silence finish the story.
This was written in noise.
Read in shadows.
Ends in a whisper.
Goodbye—
or whatever the opposite of "loading" is.