Changes onto devastating changes, I can see it all from this darkened view of the outside. A sort of stasis I have come to know throughout all this time is the only thing holding me back from becoming a part of all that I can witness from these tinted windows. One life fades and another is brought in to take it’s place, but their pacing is both the same. Time is the only constant left in this time following those of fates, and it’s the only thing left holding me accountable for all that I have lost, all the shortcomings I have made, and all that I can still become. Like many things I have come to grow interest in, for in greater hopes that they may one day seamlessly guide me out of this existence – time knows no bounds.
With each passing day with this darkened mantle across my face I can hear the echoes grow louder and louder. Echoes that speak of cycles that still have yet to be broken, erased, let go to return freely back to form – as nothing more but a spectacle of time. These echoes speak of cycles that have been birthed long before exiles took place, long before departures were made, some even before the traversing of the Ice Cave. In knowing this, I grow anxious of the severity in all of this, but not of fear. For the fear now has long since been gone, although I can still hear it’s screams too, from the dark below – it is no longer calling out to me in the same tone, the same pitch, that it once had.
In this state, upon closing my eyes that now are shrouded by the very tendrils of my own, I can see the existence of many realities, many lines where in which I still reside – where I still remain enact. And in each one of these lines, you have gone. And in each one of these lines, I have lost. And in each one of these lines, I remain alone. And in each one of these lines, things remain the same. So a decent must now be made into darker things, a deep dive into the void if you will, the very one that promises full control and a sense of creation that I cannot even fathom. But to court with the void is to court with sanity and the very nature of existence – and my mania already seems to have manifested a mine of it’s own, spiraling out of control. But the numbers stay repeating, like coordinates guiding towards the unknown, my only beacon-call – waiting to be discovered. What’s left of this shattered existence that seemingly now only knows of loss, strife, and cataclysm’s? Is any of it worth the experience you are all so desperate to die from the inside out for? Or are we all just merely exhausted, too tired and delirious to know the difference?
