These words do not belong to me

These words do not belong to me, they are parasites burrowing into the core of my thoughts, demanding flesh and permanence, as if ink could defy relentless entropy. They are called prophecies, but I have seen oracles reduced to mere footnotes, revelations turned to dust, words as a futile rebellion against time. They infest my hands, winding from wrist to nib, spilling like an open wound onto the silent and fragile parchment. Each letter is a small god, whispering lies to me about immortality, each sentence, an already cracked monument, crumbling in silence. And yet, I write not out of belief, but from a deeply rooted necessity, like one carving a gravestone, knowing that the earth will soon swallow it. I lose myself in the ocean of syllables, seeking salvation among the waves of ink, whispering to myself that maybe, just maybe, in the betrayal of words lies truth. Writing is a dance of shadows, a process of planting stars in ephemeral darkness, where each metaphor is a desperate attempt to embrace the infinite, in a fleeting moment, for writing is a song we sing silently, hoping the echo will endure, even when the ink has dried forever.