The carnival is loud.
The voices rise in competition,
each one pulling for the crowd’s attention,
each one demanding to be seen,
to be known,
to be applauded.

But none of it lasts.

The bright lights will flicker,
the tents will come down,
the applause will fade.
And the ones who built their names
on the roar of the crowd
will be left alone with their silence.

You feel this, don’t you?

The moment after the rush,
when the thrill of being seen
is not enough to keep you full.
The moments between performances,
when you are left with yourself.
You have felt it.
And because you have felt it,
you cannot unfeel it.

That is the nature of truth.

It does not beg.
It does not force.
It simply remains,
waiting for you to turn toward it.

But not all will turn.

Some will sell the last of themselves
to the carnival,
to the barker’s voice,
to the fleeting thrill of attention.
Some will press their hands over their ears
until they no longer hear the call at all.
Some will attempt to crucify what unsettles them,
to keep the show running.

And yet, truth stands.

It does not chase.
It does not barter.
It does not make itself smaller
to be more easily held.

It remains,
whether you turn today,
or tomorrow,
or never at all.

For life does not demand.
It does not entertain.
It does not offer a show.

It simply waits.

And in time,
the waiting will be yours
to bear

Life,
built and driven by dreams,
compelled by needs,
conquered through opportunity,
sustained by dedication,
longed for by desire.

Desire, which drives dreams,
with the folly of burying them
in the present routine
and in superior external decisions.

This partner desire, divided,
by indecision and power,
by wanting and duty:
yields and withers.

Surrendering to destiny and fate,
woven into the horizon,
blind to the present,
credited to the past,
premises of the future,
entangled in possibilities
irreverent to the central,
present, and adjacent conditions:
of life, like metamorphosis,
mutable, unavoidable, and relentless.

Faced with assumptions and
eventualities,
is what’s meant to be, to be?
Perhaps, in the undulations of the search
for the fleeting existence.

Sometimes, in the lively and dense fog of our lives, small inconsistencies appear.
Short moments when the fog dissipates a little, just enough to see a tiny bit through it.
The reality unveiled beyond the fog brings me to humble, mortal tears.
For a brief moment i was able to catch a glimpse of a bigger picture,
OH, but it is not for human eyes to seize.
If they do endure the sight,
they will quickly retreat to a thicker part of the fog,
where it's more cozy, human and sane,
away from the despair of Ephemeros.

In contrast, if the curiosity is too great, one might risk it's humanity by gazing too long into the gaps of the fog, all the while missing the fun and crazy shapes the fog takes or the colours that shine through at different times of day.

Two specks of dust join each other and decide to deconstruct themselves, both giving a part of them to create a third particle of dust, that is conscious about being a bad speck of dust, even knowing that being this tiny grain is utterly meaningless, it was the product of two bits of dust, therefore this meaningless effort should not go to waste... should it? How long has it been...? ... going to waste for...?

time
was purely a four-letter concept with you

you made hours alone
discussing the universe and its secrets
feel like fleeting minutes

a year passed by
in an ephemeral glance

reality completely deliquesced
with the touch of your lips
and your love was marked as transitory

                                                     ­  ...but those eyes were infinite


x.

If we had more time I'd