I'm the one who crawls through the wretched soil of my once forgotten memories which hurt the more...they come to life at night. I am a huge bug with one million legs. Still I can't run away from them. They are twirling around me, twisting my brain. What is real? Don't know anymore.
If not me, then who? Why do you look at me this way? I’ve lost everything I had and now I lie ashore, astrayed and almost strangled by the waves and the words. They twist in every way possible, but I don’t know anymore how it feels to be alive…I can’t feel anything. Am I dead? Am I flying to the promised land?
Sometimes I see: death is just the door, it is the way. It’s much better than uncertainty. Do you want to open the door at last? Do you really want to know it?!
Solitude. The beauty of the sound. The beauty of the form. The beauty of the suffering. The wind and the water. The tree. They will be there. Can you feel it? They were there before me and they will be there when I’m gone. Right at their places. I feel the oaks crying. I can feel their pain. With their gnarled branches they are stabbing the sky and it frowns. The last leaf falls down, carried away by the indifferent wind and haunted by the mercilless breath of winter. The oaks are mourning. Eternity is a scaring thing after all.