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.