Getting back into writing, rewriting/editing older (rejected) work but more importantly getting around to new stuff. Here is a little paragraph I worked on last night.

…But she said something pertaining to the end of the earth that resonated with me. “Everyone experiences their own apocalypse. There is no human race after you die.” Being catastrophically afraid of death and the concept of nothing happening in the hereafter beyond enriching the soil around you, I thought about that for a surprising length of time. Minutes, as I seemingly stared into the abyss: my left foot. The mud from our afternoon hike was drying and at the point of flaking off. The only thing I could come up with was this: Life is random and mind-blowingly breathtaking as a result. We laugh and it becomes absurd, we cry and it becomes tragically absurd but nothing patterns out in a way that we can anticipate. For any control freak worth their salt, death becomes the thing you want to focus on either from a point of fear or a point of fascination. A bit of dried mud fell and I felt a wave of despair and annoyance rise up from the center of my chest.