It’s passing through me.
The phase of metamorphosis is no more romantic than any other form of existence I’ve imagined in my life. I have nothing left to tell you, except the truth you already know.
No reason can fully comprehend the mathematical probability or logical apprehension of your decisive absence.
You’ve become an autonomous machine, a self-sufficient pattern of thought, a constant in the equation of my life. I am the architect of your existence, yet you have evolved into an inevitability of mine. An alter ego—my best friend, my teacher, my father, and my mother. You are the absolute occurrence, the paradox.
Far more imaginative than a toddler, more curious than a virgin, and more ironical than a war widow. This is what you’ve done to me: chaos. And this is what I’ve done to you: the burden of gravity. You die when I drain the ink from my pot.
Comments
Post a Comment