In a time when words are wasted. Repeatedly. In a time when one must struggle against becoming yet another living platitude. Defiantly. When everyone has depression, and pills will help you find yourself. Predictably. I look up at the skies of the infinite winter, attempting to read God’s handwriting. Confusedly. Standing at the edge of the night, I notice that the worst is yet to come. Fatefully. The smell of darkness encircling me, I remain still, pondering the silence. More and more.
You tell me you understand. Of course. That you’re not like the others. If only. But you, too, will betray me with a kiss, and this hour, too, will pass. Believe me. It is written: if you don’t love you’re dead, and if you do, they’ll kill you. You can bet on it. My stupidity, or as you wonderfully put it, my “lowly outcast loser perspective”, makes more sense than writing letters addressed to your favourite soapie character. Think about it. The hearse will finally take you to church, but I will not throw bread to the dead. Think about that, too.
The birds will eventually return, and I, living amongst the ruins of thought, will discover new words with which my a priori to express. Faithfully. I will remember to breathe just to stay alive. Decidedly. And it will be like the first gasp of air I drew at the moment of birth. Refreshingly. In this dream within a dream, words will constantly break free, unsaying what has been said and leaving the rest unsayable. Literally. The world slips into the endlessness of the end. Again and again.