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Eternograf 1

Time does not flow within me, but rather, it is only a frozen smoke, a mist trapped between my thoughts and the forgetfulness that always lurks. I feel its shadow treading slowly across my brow, weary from the burden of a moment that never ends. Light does not guide my path, it only reveals the emptiness, a bottomless abyss where foreign echoes are lost. The shadows around me belong to no body— they are remnants of my silent questions, reflections of a void that I can never fill. My bitterness is not a wound, it is the proof that I am here, a hidden inscription on time’s bleeding parchment, written in letters that unravel before I can read them. I carry deep stigmata within me, drawn like maps of perdition, guides toward nowhere. What is my life, if not a continuous absence of all we might have become? What is death, if not a blind step beyond the imperfect circle we’ve drawn around ourselves? And yet, from the stones of my heart a spring sometimes rises, from the darkness within me emerges the light that watches me, and from the deepest silence rise words I do not understand, but feel as callings.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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Date: 7/2/2025 5:18:00 AM
Quite an introspective, philosophical write Florin. Hope you find your answers. I have
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Florin Lacatus
Date: 7/2/2025 5:44:00 AM
Thank you for your reflection, Tom. Perhaps you have found your answers, and that is both a blessing and a kind of farewell to wonder. As for me, I remain among the ruins and the stars, where questions are not obstacles, but companions. I do not seek answers like stones carved in certainty, but voices whispered from the wounds of time. Some of us write not to conclude, but to remember that mystery is sacred; that even the silence between two verses can carry more truth than a hundred declared certainties. I salute your peace. Mine still bleeds—beautifully. :)

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