The womb convulses, spitting me forth—a clot of breath. Light carves itself into my skull. Already, the body is a wound.

I lurch toward meaning, but time gnaws at the marrow. The mirror refuses me. Language drips, cooling into names I do not recognize.

Love lingers but never sinks in. The tongue, a rusted hinge. The hands, outstretched, grasp absences. They call this aging, but it feels like erosion.

Flesh crumbles into concept. Time forgets. A door swings open in the dark—
or was I never here at all?

at the end of the day,
with my illusions at bay,
when bound to obey
a truth so gray —
i travel the depths
with sondering footsteps,
to see if they help
or merely cast a vignette
of eclectic readings,
and years of heeding
the lives preceding;
still bleeding —
like a pair of lips,
cracked at the tips
in sorrow’s grips;
hardly equipped —
to deal with ‘the self’  
with words off a bookshelf,
too dry to spell  
the thought of oneself.

Bones threaded with silence,
a weft of unseen tides,
drowned before the sky could murmur,
names twisted into half-light.

Empty calls carve through marrow,
a dissonance stitched in the flicker
of unspoken skies,
twisting where shadows breathe.

Flesh frays in the void of mouths
that never opened—
rusted hums too thin to grasp.

Skin unthreads,
and what remains burns in the air
like a scream that cannot form.

Dust to dust—
the thread severed
in half-thoughts,
too distant to bleed,
too numb to remember.

Act I: The Universe Breathes, and I Am an Afterthought

I arrived late to existence,
billions of years after the stars had their golden age.
Missed the Big Bang,
missed the Renaissance,
missed the time when love letters were written on paper,
instead of reducing feelings to keystrokes.

They handed me a body,
a mind that questions too much,
and a world obsessed with carving meaning out of chaos—
as if Sisyphus hadn’t already proven
we’re all just rolling boulders uphill,
pretending not to notice the futility.

Act II: The Weight of Knowing, the Lightness of Forgetting

Socrates said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”
I read that at 3 a.m. and felt personally attacked.
Descartes told me, “I think, therefore I am,”
but some days, I think too much and forget how to be.

History is a carousel of déjà vu,
spinning the same tragedies on repeat.
Empires fall, currencies crash,
trends resurrect themselves like poorly buried ghosts.
The Greeks feared hubris,
the Romans feared the barbarians,
I fear how meaning crumbles when no one is left to remember.

Act III: Beyond Meaning, Beyond Regret

Maybe Dante was right—
hell isn’t fire, it’s bureaucracy.
Maybe we’re just modern Stoics in overpriced hoodies,
romanticizing the art of being okay with things we can’t change.

Maybe meaning isn’t found in grand gestures,
but in the quiet absurdity of it all—
in watching the sun rise like it’s not exhausted,
in laughing at a joke older than Shakespeare,
in knowing that despite wars, collapses, heartbreaks, and lost civilizations—
someone, somewhere, still bakes bread from scratch,
still hums a song they don’t remember the name of,
still chooses to keep going.

Final Scene: To Exist Is to Hesitate, and Yet—

Nietzsche said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
I’m still figuring out my why.
But in the meantime,
I’ll sip my coffee, watch the world spin,
and pretend I was always meant to be here.

There is no hope,
There is no desperation,
Life flows like water,
Neither bad nor good.
If this is true,
Why can I feel?

My ill-filled mind adrift on winds ethereal,
Hopeless, I muse on my own burial.
I dug six feet in foreign lands immemorial,
As ruminations run wild, rabid, and feral.

Imprisoned self, reborn as antisocial,
Past cohorts are now strangers, fantasmal.
Depressing illusions intensify suicidal,
Knocking on doors of the heavenly celestial.
Yet kneeling at the pulpit feels nothing special.

Words misunderstood, deemed uncolloquial,
Unbothered to learn, It's deemed impractical.
Learning the language they use in their imperial,
To make my plea resound consequential.

𝒩𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝒹𝓈 𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒶𝓁!

"𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒌! 𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒆,
𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆.
𝑻𝒉𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆.
𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒍𝒆' 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔, 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒆.

𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍?
𝑨 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒚 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒍.
𝑫𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓?
𝑶𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓?"

For endless ages, I wait in vain,
Enduring this stone-hearted disdain.
Forsaken and lost, your silence profane—
An eternal ache, my solitary refrain.