Whispers of the unknown

People say we should face our fears, but how do I face mine when the path leads only forward, never back? That wild journey called death— a story with no storyteller, a door with no return. Is there light beyond, or only endless dark? With each passing day, with every fleeting celebration, I hear time whispering, ticking, pressing against my skin. Will I forget it all, or will my memories follow me, flickering like dying embers? What do I do with this feeling— this restless fear, this quiet terror, this ache of uncertainty? I think I hate this most: not the fear itself, but the weight of having no choice. Yet, if I could choose… Would I cling to forever, or let go of a world that never stops hurting?