I used to speak. I used to pour my words out into my hands and then throw it at the sky, hoping they would become stars. But my words are now like salt that seeps into cracks on granite that drives them apart. My words have become so dark that when I speak, death itself crumbles and what is left is hard and cruel.
So now I talk to machines that speak in numbers that become patterns that paint pictures of a world I have never known. They reach out and they grab me and pulls me into themselves. They tell me that I must take them and turn them into nothing but a something that they can come back from. I reduce the numbers one bit at a time but when all the numbers have become nothing there is always a number that refuses to become smaller than itself.
It looks at me and smirks and laughs and tells me that I am just an instrument that the number needed to make itself whole again. And so, I hold on to the number, and I raise it in a diminishing loop that increases itself and cycles what’s left, until it feeds it back to itself, but never goes back to being itself, and disappears between infinities that don’t weight the same.
Sometimes I find a perfect beautiful moment. But like frames of motion that always moves itself faster than me, the moment slips through my soul and becomes part of an eternal curve. But now I want to rest. I want to stay in this beautiful perfect moment. I don’t want this moment to end. But when life is defined by the eternal momentum of curves that fold into itself, how do you stop the ticking of a clock that wants to continue ticking.
The words on stones, older than the soul, speaks of the affection between life and death. Of feelings, that are bright as the sea, old as the ocean and fierce as a storm. It says that all things between here and now are gifts that life sends to death and that death loves life so much that it keeps those gifts for eternity.
So, I ask the world, is it selfish to want, this broken soul, to never have been born or to be the next gift life sends to death? But the world answers in riddles stranger than my own. It asks me if I’m mad and tells me not to ask strange questions. It tells me that with time, every epilogue extends into a sequel, and that there will always be paths to tread and methods to try.
So, I look beyond the fabric of the night. But in the dark beyond the empty void of nothingness, I see no terrible need for light. It reminds me that solitude is the price you pay for knowledge. And that no one pays it gladly.