Neither Sticks Nor Stones
How long must we keep looking at the broad oblivion that approaches our miniscule tomorrows? It looms over the once golden horizon, daring us to shake fists at its hailstorm. Watch it fracture the knuckles of our desperate hands, bloating with bone and blood. Neither wounds nor scratches are left behind — in fact, nothing is left at all.
The absence of difference between the pain of music and the joy of memories lingers between our breaths. We ponder about how long we last, maybe a touch too long. What goodness life has breathed into my eyes now flutters away into the interstellar abyss — beautiful butterflies that grew a million wings, and burned into a million suns.
I tell myself to never think about any ending, be it good or bad. Lukewarm is frequently the reality in the bigger picture, and this is in comparison to the tenfold karma that recurs per crack in my conscious vessel. It’s quite difficult how this all plays out so easily. The preemptive nature of good things always imply the inevitable end of everything. The predestination of our return to chaos is too much to handle.
We are dust, not simply, not strictly — it is that we are.
Find yourself in the peaks of any temporal dissonance. It never lasts as long as it should. An inconvenience merely exists within its assigned seconds, anything more is suspended into memory.
There’s more to worry about about than the little things I have paid too much attention to. At least, it is little to my eyes because strictly gluing another person’s perspective behind my eyelids is nothing short of a comedic waste of time.