Santa María de Guía de Gran Canaria

What am I doing?

What am I doing really?

Time moves quickly without discrimination, no sigh nor reprieve, just the stirring of echoes slipping out of the queue again and again, from back to front and back again. Time moves further still.

In the wake of some unmoving and invisible villain passing me by, I then tremble in its wake, wondering, commiserating the eventuality of my purported demise. Time awaits for no one man. If love truly was a force of joy, I have failed in that aspect spectacularly. Not even a flicker of the benefit of doubt.

It will be a long and winded trip down a path of mortal highpain, the likes of which none dare tread. In this nightmare I insisted upon myself, I begin to wonder what it is that is supposed to be. If I lie awake at night and think about going forward or back, would it matter not so very little at least? That I may hope and hope alone which cannot satiate me. Some foolish notion of romanticism that binds me to this painful crawl.

There will be answers, but not soon enough. More pain, but not deep enough. More anguish, but not sorrowful enough.

Time is a curious thing, and time and time will let it wither.