Wet streets, pale-yellow lights. Voices fade in the distance. The night fog swallows everything and turns them into a cold, soft veil. Strangers exchange haunted glances and continue walking to their sweet suffering marathon—one blink to eternity. We are creators of disposable realities we bleed upon, still pretending it all means something.
Fights over fierce opinions tear connections apart. The illusion of giving love is a sweet poison for the existential puzzle. Hopes like lost children search for redemption in a pool of vanishing tears—a promise with no future, no fulfillment. Or like a little girl that feels death’s icy grip on her arm, uncertain whether she will fight it or simply disappear.
There must be something that can be done. There should be a way out of this labyrinth. Fighting to survive is essential to continue to exist as a human.
For whom? For what?
In the midst of this madness, we are martyrs of deconstruction. Death isn’t a state for living beings alone; it’s an affliction for still life as well. Rocks corrode into dust, metal rusts, and our own bodies eventually dissolve into the ground. The strongest endure only to suffer a longer, drawn-out demise.
Meanwhile, the rain water lifts a small stone, nudging it forward. Planets whisper to the stars aligning in perplexing formations, while the universe breathes and exhales in endless motion, dragging waves of tangled lives along. Parallel wonders flicker in a lifeless, deceiving dream—always deceiving, always fading. We fiddle through narrow paths that lead nowhere, yet we pretend to find purpose. After all, we must do something while waiting to vanish.
Sunny Sundays feel hollow when the light scorches instead of warming. A white grief scratches at old traumas, now distant as if they never happened—but still quietly remembered.
She said, “have a nice trip, take care of us,” and walked away. All hopes, failures, and dreams squeezed into a single moment, then left to evaporate in a cold Sunday memory, splintered by disharmony.
Life is a palindrome. It starts in a cramped, wet place with suppressed air and limited consciousness, and it ends the same way—except flesh becomes wood and soil, and we are always alone. A cynic might say it’s a game, but it’s obviously a scam: no one wins and everyone disappears into blackness. No winners, no losers, just nothing.
And yet, at some point, we confront these truths and choose among the lesser evils: hedonism—cling to pleasure; spirituality—cling to an afterlife; apathy—cling to nothing. Ending it early? That’s not even a valid move, just a way of quitting before losing.
The clock is ticking, the lights keep blinking, music plays in the background as human figures wander by. We see them, we ignore them, we become them. Another step towards the end—why pretend it matters? Sometimes I think of the future. But then I recall: it’s all rust, dust, and futility anyway.