We are the harvesters of destiny, gathering the leeches of existence and the capriciousness of emotionless masks amidst the shores of lucid dreams and nocturnal splendor. I yearn to sing, to dance, to cry out like a madman. Bring me wine, and I shall whirl the world around the whims of human consciousness. Lead me into the depths of hell's darkness, and I'll illuminate her gates, infusing them with the exuberance of joy, filling the chalice of primal desires. Drinking deeply from life's cup, its bittersweet nectar rejuvenates my senses, enriching the tapestry of my existence. I embrace life, I consume love to its very dregs. Love, the sacred effusion of existence, binds me in the inability to unlove. I am submerged, intoxicated by the essence of my desires for her. And there, amidst the throng, I see them—men of remarkable vitality and determination, reflections of my own life, incarnations of staggering resilience. I am alive. I am Nature, she is my masterpiece. You cannot
The realm of my feasibility struggled itself for a stationed equilibrium
of responsibility and existential credos. The inconsistency of romance
often withdrew
into her absence of silence. Pastness of the present and presentness of
the past along with the absurdity of the future, but the certainty of
death made things more vivid, though with a thin frame of perplexities.
The universalized-self triumphed over the perceived meanings and
languages of humanity. Time was captured within the gargantuan vacuum of
absolute nothingness. Sound was trapped, light was trapped, and
momentum of the entire vicious cycle was trapped within that monstrous
non being of nothingness. Theoretician of mine demanded the theoretical
frameworks and critical edges of every existing being and non being, the
imagination weaved a web of beauty and absurdity of that chaos and
serenity that originated from the absolute nothingness and caused it.
what the fuck did i write?
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