Found a few old texts that I’d written a couple of years back. They are rough and rambling, lucid dreamers walking through nightmares, ash of paper getting torn in the wind again and again. They are all like that – incessantly sad, and I am not sure what to do about them. You see, there’s this lie we tell ourselves. This lie that everything dissipates over time, but the hard truth is that some stuff doesn’t. Like realizing one day that you’ve gotten yourself a shadow in a world without light. So you try to make sense of it and old men just shake their heads, swirl their fingers in their red wine and say nothing. You climb up and into them and down and out of them, without an answer to show for it. You walk over oceans with such fierce ferocity for the truth that even the dark moon herself comes down to listen.
But you find nothing. And the shadow follows like bleeding.
I don’t know if mine is shared anymore. I don’t know if there’s a counterpart for mine and I don’t know if she still has it, but that is probably the last hope that you have left here. A fools hope of those two dark things meeting and rediscovering what made them in the first place.