Children are afraid of ghosts. They demur when darkness reclaims its rightful dominion over light. Simplicity is the thing, and complexity is no thing. Binarily: black is 1, and white is 0. This is this. That is that. But youth is magic. There are wonders. Gods. Beauty is ineffable. Infinity is awful. A disgusting thought. There must be an infinity. A life after this one. It’s too cruel, otherwise.
Misery arrives–the real kind. Fear. Terror, really. An implosion of the notion that anything can be saved. Loathing, usually inward. Bleak obscurity. Smoke, fire. No pity anywhere. Bitterness. I am too good for this hell. I am something–no, I’m nothing. I strive to attain the neutrality of Zero. Hate.
Adults are reasonable. There will be an End, and I am not afraid. That End implies not just a Beginning, but also a Middle. This is that Middle. There are no fairies in the sky. This Earth is the farthest thing from Hell (just as far as practical is from silly). I will die; soon. And you will. And we will have lived. What will I have done?