My Writings


Time. Outcast into a present – one repressed by invisible hands – a single refuge in the cold, dark desert of the past, and the future. A shrine to what is and what could be – an offering of light, but a light too weak to warm us. That is why we look to the future with thirsting eyes, and blind faith.

But I have seen a time that expands and contracts – in a single, infinite, whole moment, radiating with change. The streams that find their beginnings at its core, they find their way back. What will happen has already happened and what has to happen will happen.

In that time I have grown to understand my inability – to see the truth, to overcome the boundaries of a limited mind. Rarely now, intoxicated by exhaustion, deprived of water and sleep, and tormented by digestion – I see. Patterns woven into the fabric of the world. A certain clear, quiet voice – unfamiliar, but the words that spring from it – they reveal what I should have always known.

I look at the shadow that I cast – and I see how insignificant and ugly it is. A part of me rejoices that the darkness I throw at the world has been contained to such a pitiful display. Another part wishes to raise a hand and turn a blind eye to the ensuing chaos.

Walking in circles, cast into the cyclical nature of the world. I tread in one place, my mind regurgitating the old, familiar visions and I ask myself – is that all there is to me – someone, who has pretended for so long to be complex. I look at my roots, remaining blind to progress, belittling significant memories in favor of the first, now ancient, damage that was dealt to me.

In that sense, I walk back towards myself – from the furthest reaches of what I call myself to the most familiar – from my deepest past to the present moment. The road ahead is long and arduous, but is there enough time to finally reach myself before time runs out?

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