how very easy it would be to discount all of this between you and me as fantasy!
how very easy it would be for another to inject malice between the empty lines and destroy the very beauty of the air that we breathe!
how very easy it would be to just ignore the existence of each breath and the power of silence!
how very easy it would be to just ignore my own existence!
there are days that that is exactly how i feel. i feel nothing, nothing at all. i imagine that your existence, thus mine, is nothing but a figment of some imagination protracted from the depths of some pseudo-conscience inhabiting this body with ten writing fingers and no soul. on days like these i listen to la solitude and every single word goes trough me as it being the only possessions that i can ever hope for. on days like these, i also no not know hope. why would i even want to know hope? hope is a foreign invention that does not concern me.
i wonder why i hang on to life without any effort and why it is that i wanted to be born on this earth. did you ever ask yourself the question of why you wanted to be born? i think of you, the autonomous you, that you distinct from my conjugations of the image that i sense, and i have no doubts to the very reason of your being. there is no reason for your being; you are a being of the universe, you are not mine, you never will be. what is it like to explore experiencing that being whom you are?
i do not know. or i do not want to know, for in knowing is to taste from the fruit of paradise.
