In a twilight sculpted from granite, where stars shake off like autumn leaves

In a twilight sculpted from granite, where stars shake off like autumn leaves, I wander through the labyrinth of my mind, lost among the ruins of thoughts. My love for life is but a pale flame, flickering against the winds of time, And writing becomes my armor, gleaming in the dark like a lighthouse in the night. I write to survive, each word is the blood coursing through my veins, Each letter a step on an unknown path, each sentence deepening the mystery. I strive to write well, to avoid the madness of spewing nonsense like a politician, In a world where masks slip, revealing truths that sink into obscurity. To the old banality, "Eat or die," I add "Eat and write or die," Writing is my act of worship, an altar built of paper and ink. A veneration for creatures, landscapes, ideas that inspire and uplift me, To commemorate the dead, to create new women to love, to cherish. For I have always been a seeker, a dreamer, a contemplator of seeking and dreaming; And who can say that such a nature does not open latent eyes, sensitive To unimagined worlds, to unforeseen orders of being, Where souls meet at the edge of the abyss, weaving webs of mystic melancholy. In this stream of consciousness, I lose myself and find myself anew, Thoughts flow like subterranean rivers, tumultuous and deep. Each word a stone cast in water, with ripples widening, Reaching forgotten shores, where dreams extinguish and revive in silence. I write to be, to become, to understand, I write to love, to weep, to laugh, In a world that unravels and remakes itself, In a world that breathes through every word born of mystic melancholy.