Why do we feel that if they have been lined up for decades, as if Time were a false witness, even innocence would contaminate a person to the core?! From the black-and-white films of negatives - back then - it would have been much easier to evoke an eternal moment in the captivity of darkrooms, which is perhaps characteristic only of each individual.

The roads directed towards the finish line have become one-way labyrinths, just like the crossroads of the desire for faith. Many may not know it yet, but mere good-willed intentions are not always certain to be chosen with free will.

Often they do not dare to notice the hunters lurking in the depths of everyday life, who exist and breathe just like anyone else; one could say that they deliberately, with superficial pleasure, eviscerate life to the core. - because now fewer and fewer people are excited by the consciousness of half-humanity; that they sold themselves and made a deal.

The good thing about romantic love in the past was that it was as if the One-Beloved had carried the feelings in her womb, so that she could then give them birth every day, while the pain was replaced by selfless, radiant happiness. In every case, it ends the same way; whoever sets out on a long, unknown journey is not sure that he will find what he was really looking for. One wonders where he could have ruined the selfish game theories, as well as the manipulable psychological tools, if he looked into superstitious eyes!

As if all dislikes were now uniform; like an iron ball wishing to hang on chains, it swings unnoticed in the depths of the soul's mine, harder than granite, yet still softer than conscious Nothing. Almost everything is now made up of manipulation and a series of pretense. It would be nice to spontaneously get stuck in an idyllic, well-deserved dream as long as possible, and where the expandable concept of Time does not exist.

Mobile smartphones are now unexpectedly and intentionally ringing into the chaos of already total-comatose awakenings; as if our crouched objects were gradually swept away by obsolescence, contrary to the supersonic levels of technological development. - In addition to small and large victims, small and large executioners and privates also regularly wield the scalpel, or even the razor, at their pleasure.

Because the Cerberus-devouring dogs are not allowed to join the holy choir of the persecuted these days, that would be too much of a snare for them. Packs of prey are grouped into starving hordes, while outside, strayed flocks bleat into the lost flock; for a long time, no redeeming forgiveness has flowed from the grass, even if it is trampled down once and for all. Every relationship becomes ambiguous, even if it does not want to - but is deliberately disemboweled or humiliated. The only question is: who will believe in survival and at the same time guarantee it?!

I can’t even say your name.

It withers on my tongue...
like a dying breath.
Like a prayer I never should’ve whispered.
A forbidden word,
a memory buried—
but not deep enough.

I held your secret—
tight,
like a corpse cradled in my ribs.
It pulsed there,
rotting slow,
whispering lies
in a voice that sounded too much like mine.

You told me this…
was healing.
You said:
This is what you need.
You said:
This is love.

And I—
I believed you.
Because I thought love could look like you.
I thought maybe
you saw the part of me
I kept hidden.
The holy part.
The waiting part.

I made a promise once.
To something higher.
Older.
Holier.

To wait.
To be whole.
To offer myself to someone
who could see the soul beneath the skin.

And you…
you made me think
you were that someone.

You said all the right things.
Held me like I was something sacred.
Looked at me
like I was light.

But you—
you didn’t come for the light.
You came for the heat.
The curve.
The body—
not the being.

And when I whispered no…
you didn’t flinch.
When I begged—
please stop…
your hands were deaf.
Your breath—
heavy.
Your need louder than my pain.

I cried.
I shook.
I begged.

You heard me.
You heard everything.
And still—
you stayed.

You stayed
and you took
what was never yours.

You were close—
so close
to the thing you wanted.
And nothing else mattered.

Not my voice.
Not my tears.
Not the sacred vow
I placed in your hands
like a fragile, flickering flame.

You crushed it.
Extinguished it.
And left me in the ash.

And when I came to you—
small,
shattered,
trying to understand how love
could feel like drowning—
I said:

You hurt me.
You took what I never gave.

And you looked at me,
so calm,
so sure,
and said:

Your body said yes.
Your mouth said no, but I knew what you needed.

As if my body was louder than my voice.
As if my begging meant nothing.
As if the pain you caused
was some kind of gift.

You knew.
Don’t pretend you didn’t.
You wore understanding like a mask—
but it slipped, didn’t it?
Right before you did
what can’t be undone.

Now I am silence.
Now I am ruin.
Now I am the echo
of a girl
who once believed in light.

I feel your hands even now—
ghost-hands,
burned into memory.

You forgot me.
I know.
I’m dust to you.
Mist in your rearview.

But you…
you are the grave I wake in.
The scream I cannot voice.
The shadow I drag
through every room,
through every prayer.

I want to forget.
I beg to forget.
I would burn my own name
to forget.

But you haunt me.

Still.
Still.
Still.

If we are not careful in this current brainwashed, diluted existence, our peanut-sized brains will be ground into a nut-core mass by the many vile, slanderously otherworldly speeches, the unworthy preaching of exaggerated promises. All the undeserved blows, slaps-showers have already run around the walls of the skulls, because common sense has long ago locked the gates of the temples. The knowledge and certainty that you must live as a wanderer now increasingly batters you, then suspends you.

The infected pus just pours out of the leaking Existence-cracks, like the honey-glazed judgments of false prophets. Where is the courage?! - ask the suspicious, just like the compromised, when it would be good to hold on to the power of a helping friendly hand, or to the gaze of the Kind savior angel, because even so, there are and will be ugly days when people would rather waste away like silent stones in the oozing mass-mud than on the glue-smelling surface, from which - it may very well seem - there is no escape.

Those who can still understand a chain of connections can resist all drifting, - though not for eternity and beyond. The message of cheerful human-charmers at the benevolent words of *******-angels will also be a delusion, an illusion. The holy shackles of truth and honesty must be broken apart by a newly concluded vague contract, by petty manipulative bargaining, so that they cannot function; live and create. A wild din rages among scattered human herds; it breaks the shackles of stoic silences, with which one could still protest, because somewhere deep down one feels: one cannot sell oneself!