During nights like these, the darkest I have ever seen; nights where the starry skies exist outside of the places that I once knew, nights that speak in whispers of a times past and a deaths circling – I can feel the cold brush like never before. A cold brush that leaves me longing and yearning for a newer light at times, a cold brush that bruises the skin, igniting the fires from within. The tension in the air sways in between a state of intoxicating thickness, to a state of gentle lightness – back and forth it moves and switches, like torture. I move in the night simply because I have no, for it was the way that has always called out to me, it is the way that has molded me to who I am today.
Surrounded by the loneliness, this is how things have always been. An isolating reality where over the past advents and eras things have become more fleeting than ever. An inescapable, and inevitable cyclone, devouring each and everyone as it draws near. It covers the landscape at astounding angles, pulling and twisting at the earth, consuming what will we have left to continue existing. I have seen what lies at the edge of these dwindling hours, hours that countdown to a sense of panic and madness that will only lead to the devouring and overtaking of the flames that burn my skin. Flames that are in essence, the will that keeps me alive in a sense, but simultaneously one of the many final fates that will see to it I end.
But these flames seek to become something more, they seek to evolve and more forward. They seek to see to it that I am empty, not only of flesh, but also of feeling and memory. And emptiness that I have fought to recede time and time again, an emptiness that is inevitable and rising, much like this dark moon that will expose hollows that exist between existences, leading to an evolution of this darkest sense that I have come to know.
