Dry earth welcoming the rain like your heart would welcome serenity, only death would put you at ease yet you’re still not ready to die. Wishing again someone would tell you what to do. Not sad, not enraged, not paralyzed by destructive emotions, just wondering, questioning, curiosity digging holes into your skull, pushing you forward till your flawed mortal flesh is spent, worn down, broken.

This is not what I wanted to say, why do my words always stir up dark feelings? It wasn’t meant to be this way, our urgent need knows nothing of pessimism, it is the will to live, not to give up and simply wither away. Struggling to leave a mark behind, make a sound loud enough to disturb the forces of the universe, though deep inside aware of the effort’s futility, acknowledging infinity's unassailable armies. Sooner or later silence will take its toll.

The certainty of an ending filling your nights with ghosts of wasted opportunities, but also blessing you with a sense of raw desperate freedom. On we go, either walking backwards or stretching to see what lies beyond. A pointless task, for the future is ever undecided and the past changes colour the more we dive into its ashen seas.