Yesterday, the world ended.
Tears trickled down my wounded facade. The faint glow of water, so detached and out of place, spun a silky web that thawed against the evening heat. So abundant was emptiness right now. The infection had spread. It had gone too far…
For nights and days, I had encaged myself inside this labyrinth. Here, solutions were oblivious and existence challenged. Purpose is for the weak, for those who are blind and stubborn. I am my own entity.
My views on individualism have changed in the past years. Now, I walk the streets as a self-professed capitalist. There is no order in my world, only mess. Well-placed and organised mess is an impression of (self) interest. Creation is only an excuse for modification.
Minds can be so disproportionate and biased. Had I played myself in chess, I would have found myself in the position of stalemate. Lost in the constraints I set myself. Endangerment. Work seemed so meaningless. Procrastination is the only alternative.
I have grown old. Like the withered strokes of oil-based paint on canvas weathered by the intensities of nature, I am fading. The colours have been siphoned by a harsh shade of reality. They are trapped in the deeply etched trenches on my cracked skin.
The touch of air sucked dried the sublime salt on my cheek, and I was left to wonder. Where do I go from now?
Judgement will pass. Philosophy will grow. But I will always remain mortal. Death is inevitabably necessary. The world had not died yet… it had simply ended.
Fine.
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Locked for re-birth. The cycle had completed its revolution. Life is about to begin… even if it was for a second time.
Full of lies. Full of fear. Darkness had never seen such light.
IPPY
Tears trickled down my wounded facade. The faint glow of water, so detached and out of place, spun a silky web that thawed against the evening heat. So abundant was emptiness right now. The infection had spread. It had gone too far…
For nights and days, I had encaged myself inside this labyrinth. Here, solutions were oblivious and existence challenged. Purpose is for the weak, for those who are blind and stubborn. I am my own entity.
My views on individualism have changed in the past years. Now, I walk the streets as a self-professed capitalist. There is no order in my world, only mess. Well-placed and organised mess is an impression of (self) interest. Creation is only an excuse for modification.
Minds can be so disproportionate and biased. Had I played myself in chess, I would have found myself in the position of stalemate. Lost in the constraints I set myself. Endangerment. Work seemed so meaningless. Procrastination is the only alternative.
I have grown old. Like the withered strokes of oil-based paint on canvas weathered by the intensities of nature, I am fading. The colours have been siphoned by a harsh shade of reality. They are trapped in the deeply etched trenches on my cracked skin.
The touch of air sucked dried the sublime salt on my cheek, and I was left to wonder. Where do I go from now?
Judgement will pass. Philosophy will grow. But I will always remain mortal. Death is inevitabably necessary. The world had not died yet… it had simply ended.
Fine.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Locked for re-birth. The cycle had completed its revolution. Life is about to begin… even if it was for a second time.
Full of lies. Full of fear. Darkness had never seen such light.
IPPY
