There is nothing left but flakes of sand on my feet. I can hear the whispers of the outside world from this elevated room far above to the sky, all empty yet tangible. Funnily enough I have awakened earlier than usual, a practice I have yet to master, for there is no mastery to master, only repetition, redundancies which are bound to pop out every now and then in search for longing. It is no mere nostalgia, however, as the world rotates in one direction. Nostalgias, as far as I am concerned, rotate counter-clockwise.
There is nothing left in the fingernails but pebbles of dust similar to the sand that bothers my feet. I have never found a reason to cut them, for there is nothing to cut. My teeth does all the talking. And when they alas meet, then all will be for naught.
The sun shines faintly brightly over dawn on the edifice as I notice by the window. How long does the effect last? What happens when the eternal star is no longer eternal? A darkness consuming us for over an entire lifetime. A thought I could not pursue, yet, it reminds me so close to home.
My eyes meet red acrylic on its peripheries. A bottle that reminds me of my artistic endeavours, a failure, a frustration, an incoming-outgoing goal. It speaks not for itself, because others would rather speak for it, a lisper, with nothing to prove but hypocrisies outside the realm of practicality. It is neither relevant nor necessary, and yet people continue to digress, as I digress, for the sake of argument and the sake of my own sanity -- or insanity, whichever you prefer, whichever you suggest. I am whatever they say I am.
Overlooking the acrylic, a container of tomato sauce, serving little purpose as usual. A condiment for what is the trick of the tongue, analysing and hypnotising the senses into deluding satisfaction and savour. Taste is a myth perpetuated by the mind, similar to the interest of the different kinds of emotions.
Then, the song, dancing in the wind, saying 'dreams won't fade away.' An agonising lie, no doubt. You wake up to reality and it's over. You sign papers, you eat your favourite brand of pasta, speak your favourite Italian word. Can we get so much higher? So high that it no longer matters? I fantasise about this a lot. I find bravery in knowing answers are balls better than questions. Stop the ignorance.
Speak your senses, not make-believe, lest they be buried in mythologies of your labyrinthine thoughts. Find courage, like me and all the others (no one else), in knowing memories are bound by death and unity by solitude.