I have no reason to feel ashamed;
I am what I am, without pretenses.
My dreams were left far behind,
in the end slipping away from my own life.
I look at my life as if it belonged to someone else;
I don’t care whether I stay here or not.
Everything feels the same to me—no ambitions,
no doubts—none of it depends on me.
I know I’m still here on borrowed time,
and I don’t intend to be anything special.
Just another person, one among so many,
not worse, not better—simply another.
It all feels the same, and strangely,
that brings me comfort.
At last, I have settled into what is.
These days fall out of rhythm;
in the end, everything grows cold,
and my hands turn numb,
frozen inside and out.
I feel the moment arriving—
the cold hour to let everything go,
to become a small part of nothing.
That nothing we all become in the end;
because in the end, we are all the same,
cold as dead dust.