Who am I? Which of me is real? The man I was, the man I am, or the man I will be?
Perhaps none. Perhaps all.
Or perhaps I am only a shadow, stretched thin between them,
never truly existing at all.

The past—ah, the past! How foolish he was!
He thought he understood life, believed in things—love, hope, meaning.
He was naïve, reckless in his convictions, blind in his desires.
He did not yet know what it means to kneel before regret,
to feel the slow, merciless tightening of time around his throat.
I hate him for his arrogance, and yet—I pity him.
For he never knew the weight that awaited him in the years to come.

And my future self—what a stranger.
Does he pity me, or does he curse me?
He waits somewhere ahead, silent, watching,
knowing already what I will choose,
what I will lose, whom I will betray.
I cannot see him, but he is there,
a judge I can never escape.

And then, there is me—the wretched creature caught between them.
I am neither innocent like my past nor wise like my future.
I am only the sum of mistakes not yet forgiven,
of choices not yet made,
of a life that unfolds with or without my consent.

Tell me, if they met—past, present, and future—
would they recognize each other at all?
Or would they simply turn away,
each ashamed of what the other has become?

I imagine it sometimes—the letter you never wrote,
the words you almost said, the truth that trembled on your lips
but died before it could escape.

Would it have been an apology? A confession?
Or merely a quiet acknowledgment
of everything left unsaid between us?

Perhaps you sat in the dim glow of a dying candle,
pen in hand, staring at the paper
as if the weight of your thoughts
was too much for ink to bear.

Perhaps you wrote the first few lines,
hesitated, crossed them out,
and in that hesitation,
decided that silence was easier.

Or perhaps you never meant to write at all.
Perhaps you knew, as I did,
that some words are better left unspoken,
some wounds better left untouched.

And so, the letter remains unwritten,
just as we remain unfinished—
a story with no ending,
a question that will never be answered.

There is a kind of suffering too deep for words,
a weight that settles in the bones,
dragging the soul into an abyss where even despair has lost its voice.
You wake, you breathe, you move—
but it is not living. It is merely the absence of death.

Nothing matters.
Not love, not laughter, not the sun rising over the rooftops.
You watch the world as if from behind a glass,
separated, untouched,
a ghost among the living.

You search for meaning,
as a man drowning in the ocean searches for land.
But there is none—only an endless stretch of water,
only the slow pull of the tide.

And so you sink, without struggle, without protest.
Because what is there left to hold onto,
when even the suffering has become dull?

A woman—what is she, if not a mystery written in fire?
She speaks, and her words wound and heal alike.
She loves, and in her love, one either lives or perishes.
She is neither angel nor devil, yet possesses the cruelty of both.

Men dream of understanding her,
as a blind man dreams of light—
but what folly! What arrogance!
For even as she stands before him,
laughing, crying, whispering secrets into the night,
she remains unknowable, a labyrinth without an exit.

She does not belong to him, nor to the world.
She belongs only to the chaos of her own heart.
And God help the man who loves her,
for he will never escape her shadow.

We were meant to be together—
was that not the cruelest lie of all?
Fate tied our hands with silken threads,
only to sever them with rusted steel.

You and I, two halves of a shattered whole,
grasping for each other through the fog of time,
only to find our fingers slipping,
our voices drowned in the silence of the inevitable.

Love did not save us.
It devoured, it burned, it bled.
And yet, even as we walk separate paths,
even as the years carve distance between us,
I know—deep in the marrow of my bones—
that I will never be whole again.

We met like dying embers,
flickering in the wind’s quiet sigh,
your eyes—twin eclipses,
hiding a sun that never rose for me.

You spoke of eternity
as if time would spare us,
but I watched your shadow stretch,
always walking ahead, never beside.

Your touch was a whisper,
a promise you never meant to keep,
and I, a fool with trembling hands,
held onto the ghost of your warmth.

Love was a cigarette between your lips,
burning, fading, forgotten in the ashtray—
yet here I am, inhaling the smoke,
pretending it still carries your scent.