Strange paradox.

Your whole heart is going to stop at 8:42 tomorrow morning, but you'll keep breathing until then. Shallow breaths, tired breaths, a long drag of a breath when you step into the cool, clean air outside. You fool. What futility, the way your chest keeps expanding, the way your eyes search the sky for some sudden beauty. Like it's inevitable. That you'll always find something worth looking up for. That you'll always find something worth breathing in for. Our silly bodies keep working, grinding their tireless mechanisms, like there's a point to it at all. And there is until there isn't. Such a strange paradox. Life and our pursuit of it, the beginning and the end happening both at once, with every second your body keeps you alive.