Waiting for the end to begin

It seems everything
comes back to me in waves.

I feel too much,
see too much,
hear too much.

My mind never stops.

I'll never be enough.

I notice infinity encroaching,
being so far and impossible,
yet so meaningless.

It makes me unnecessarily
nervous about the end.

Wherever it would end.

Math never made sense,
but I think I understand
that everything exists
to be converted
into numbers and calculations.

Maybe.

Infinity is strange and stupid:
a boundless world,
an eternity
I have no hope to experience.

I hate not being macho.

Hemingway makes it so easy.

I wish I knew how to face the end.

I wish I wasn't so scared.

But I also wish
I didn't stop my life
so I can wait for it.