Emptiness is such a strange concept when it comes to my drifting, yet ever-fading mind. Like more of a feeling than it is something of space, substance, and the lack of it. These days endlessly drifting in this ever-growing sense of night have begun to take their toll on me. Not because of the black and the thicker it grows, but more-so the ever-inflating anxieties of what it is to follow – that have long since begun to creep inside my mind. Like never before, I have now grown inherently tired of things. Tired of barring witness to the crumbling of this foundation around me, tired of the feeling of the fates fruitions seeking me out across this dying scape, awaiting to consume me and all that remains of this tattered line.
It all leaves me breathless in a sense for the amount that lies before me is an undertaking, a darkness, a sort of crusade for an epilogue that I cannot even seem to conjure up in my dreams. For when it comes to exactly what is to follow, my mind is simply that hollowed out, burning with a sense of psychosis of some violent emptiness – like a void that is only just becoming. In times like these, during the moments this black sun rises – I catch these glimpses of madness like flashes before my eyes. They spill images of the final days and hours that await me and the confrontations that will commence. Confrontations that have long since been put off for old fear of starting violence and wars that would likely see no end. But the time now is different. For the time that remains now is but a fleeting one; one that in which will stay for no man who wishes to squander is presence on mere battles and war. For the time that remains now is one that seeps it’s grains of sand into the palms of manifestations, manifestations from grains of sand that seep quickly from the long since, tipped, hourglass of the final fates fruitions.
