In an extended world, we live, a universe already fated and finalized
In an extended world, we live, a universe already fated and finalized,
A world that knows all the spirals and turns we might hit, the ruin in a single tremor.
Our goals are tied only to the future; we believe we all deserve an eternal resting place.
Children live in anticipation of the peak; the elderly live in its recollection.
The wars of the flesh ended long ago, yet we still ceaselessly battle with our coverings.
There is a childish belief in us that we are destined to surpass others,
An illusory belief that we already know ourselves.
As if we were not all made from the same fabric,
As if we were not just an empty vessel filled with all the world's filth.
We cut the paper along the drawn lines, we whip ourselves when we stray from the contours.
With hands buried deep in the thick layer of the coat, we try to warm our feet.
All this should have been right.
Who truly knows another way?
And here I am, on a melancholic evening, dressed in memories like in old garments,
Watching the shadows on the walls, shadows that unravel and reassemble,
A silent dance of the past and the future, a mute dialogue of the divided self,
Wondering if I will ever find the right lines, those lines that do not lead to the precipice.
Deep within, I feel the waves of time engulfing me,
How each moment is a raindrop on a country road,
How each thought is a falling star in an infinite sky,
And yet, I resist, I cling to the dream that I am more than a shadow in this cosmic dance.
Buried in the melancholy of the evening, in the silence between two heartbeats,
I wonder if I will ever know the true fabric of being,
Or if I will remain forever a traveler on this dusty road,
A soul lost in the labyrinth of its own illusions.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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