“𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯. 𝘈𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘰𝘯, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘬𝘺, 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘺.”

It was at the point where dusk and dawn became so inexplicably intertwined, an endless circle one might say, when I found myself in a state of discomfort at the total quietness that had followed. It was as if I was neither hopeless, nor had any hope - I remained indifferent to both. I simply watched as every irreversible second passed, every drop of the endless rain running down the window pane. But what frightened me the most was what I saw; nothing. What once was even but the smallest collective was now left but a mere desolate desert, a wasteland where not even ghosts, proof of what once had been, seemed to remain.
It was at this point that I realized how dreadfully infinite this all was - the empty landscape stretching to the horizon, the naked tree branches reaching (only reaching) up for the sky, though with little success, for they were old and weak, and heaven and earth were hopelessly clouded, divided, almost as if to ridicule the pathetic weakness of what lied down below.
No gift, nor miracle, ever poured down. Only the rain which seemed to bring whatever progress that had been made back to its starting point, each time preventing the future from ever coming. Though one had to wonder if one should blame the nature of reality itself, or one's own ignorant cowardice. Because really, we all feared death, and how ironic it is that we feared it so much we ended up renouncing life, welcoming death with open arms! We lived in such a fear of it that we did not even dare to acknowledge it. As death presented itself at our doorstep, we simply responded with a sense of (selfish) guilt, and regret was rendered only as a way to get rid of the thoughts that may come to (and perhaps already do) torment one during the bound and eternal cycles of day and night.

Waiting and waiting as time moved forward, nothing changed. It passed but it didn’t go away - memories of sunny meadows faded, and the present was left not only as a subsequent constant, but as the only thing that was and will be in past and future form. Wherever one looked, it was all the same. Every thought, every action - it all fades with time, only the crumbs, the consequences, only they remain. Though they too have a fate, heading towards their inevitable demise that comes with the setting sun, where they’ll become a forgotten past, perhaps only kept alive in notebooks buried under the crumbling ground, till they disintegrate (as everything in this mortal world does) into the dust of decay that covers our land.

We lived like beasts, choosing to forget. Though saying so is insulting to the beasts themselves, as they didn’t really have a choice, did they? We became so afraid of anything that means life that we ignored our choice, our choice of living with any form of dignity.
Mere animals in so called “civilization”, we needed order to keep civilized, for trying to live out our freedom with a sense of conscience was too much for us to bear, yes, too much my friends. We ignored innocence, all that is good and true, salvation - because we envied how far away it seemed, how unreachable, and so we’d rather stay blind before the twisted hand of fate that was so clearly unraveling before us, ignoring the whisper at the depths of our now corrupt spirit, than sit in shame wondering about our own sins.

And so we continued living, or rather, merely existing, in disharmony with the chord of our own heart and soul. Waiting, and perhaps even letting be carried away by some false hope for a better, new life - a miracle! We wondered at the light of our dreams, not recognizing that they will merely be kept as that, dreams. Yet we tried to hide from the darkness of our nightmares, knowing they were too much a reflection of waking life.
It was foolish to think that the melancholy drops of the autumn rain would ever stop, that suddenly we’d find ourselves in a place where everything is paradisiacal, and nothing is constantly disintegrating, falling apart, alive - decaying. One can drink themselves away from reality as much as they’d like, remain oblivious, but do not succumb to the false illusion of passionate immortality. Only once every tick of the clock starts to mean something, only once the decaying branches of the old acacias in the middle of the cold night start seeming so inexplicably beautiful, meaningful, no matter the melancholy - only once we realize how everything is so unfathomably, yet profoundly intertwined - only then, only there, will we find life.