There’s some kind of addictive mystery in the passing of time, some kind of irreplaceable beauty in the fluidity of moments. It is a sort of charm that is particular to the observance of the flight of seconds, a helpless sight of the accumulation of self-loath, and an awareness of the formation of revelations and the departure of skies.
It is a meditative serenity that often propel minds towards a rumination of unreturned beings, recreations of unreturned moments, and imitations of unreturned sensitivity towards human emotions. It is also the sentimental geometry of void, in the colour of tranquility and the sound of ocean blue, that is, however, resistant towards futile disturbance, harsh progress, or any irrelevant form of force.
It is an unfathomable spectrum of vibrance that heals itself above the surface of earth, without struggling with the philosophical question of heaven, or obsessing over the favorable existence of pandemoniums. It is, moreover, beyond literal language, but does not cease to immerse all souls into the impalpable curse of extravagant metaphors and the invasive hymn of figurative speech.
It does not fail to retain the capability of bestowing suffocation upon minds, or to cast upon torsos the experience of falling from the infinite heights of mountains. Yet, before the return of any sort of human consciousness, skulls are often, as they are destined to be, smashed into the gruesome ground of stones.
All you will be able to recall is, perhaps, the way unpleasant screams gradually traumatise the running child, the manner in which the scrap of wound frightens the newborn infant. But all they will reiterate is the way blood is left forgotten among the passage of beings and the passage of time.
In this moment, where all worldly matter become unfathomable, you will be allowed to let go of meaning. In this moment, where all vile hearts become gentle, you will loosen the grip of pain. And, in this one last moment, you will be persuaded to let go of your current obsession of last words, or your imagination of flamboyant funerals.
The only certainty will rest in the unstoppable flow of time, the darkness among brightness, and the beauty among condemnations, who will draft a genuine poetry of insanity, a peaceful paragraph of death, and, one day, some sheer words of anguish and pain, just as I and my soul did, on one drunken night of the day.