StupidCat
retard
- Apr 24, 2025
- 315
The long days grow ever shorter. Brief walks end up lengthening. I don't know why I don't move forward—yet I haven't. But I walk. Unaware to where. Nor of why. I don't know—yet. Sleepless nights like an empty plaza. Notes are torn from the wind's grasp, blown by a tree's mast—rootless. Beside a church without a devotee. The cold bench must rescue in my conscience that something exists without existing. But memories, as clouds, offer darkness to the petite sun. Are you still there? I no longer recall where I was heading. Consolation and despair. Room-bound nights, rescuing from outside the passing—that moves but does not advance.
Here, day becomes night. But night does not become day. Nothing happens until everything happens. Poorly planned things become real. A song of the day becomes a dance with lyrics of tears. As long as it lasts, it lingers; as long as it waits, it brings joy; and as long as it brings joy, there is no reason to pursue.
Nights grow long once again. The hidden place changes only its color. The letters turn yellow in that old booklet. A pen, grateful for its time, drew in ink fertile lines: light bringing, as life-givers, from a resolute corner. It did nothing but retrace the attempts at life—one that never had the chance to be. Aware of its utter misery, it still attempted existence. Its human impulse beat strongly. Now it can only muster bleak chords, devastated by time. Its hope lies in a corner under dust and leaves. For it still walks without moving. It still advances without knowing, yet it walks.
It already forgets, no longer bears the scar in its mind— one that leaves no mark on the body—
the heaviness of rising through its buckles, and the lucidity of knowing that it is part of nothing
yet is part of its now.
Where do I walk, and why? I don't know—yet I haven't. If I knew, it would not be in words.
Words that turn yellow in waiting—to express what they cannot. Explain what they do not. To understand what they do not know.
Here, day becomes night. But night does not become day. Nothing happens until everything happens. Poorly planned things become real. A song of the day becomes a dance with lyrics of tears. As long as it lasts, it lingers; as long as it waits, it brings joy; and as long as it brings joy, there is no reason to pursue.
Nights grow long once again. The hidden place changes only its color. The letters turn yellow in that old booklet. A pen, grateful for its time, drew in ink fertile lines: light bringing, as life-givers, from a resolute corner. It did nothing but retrace the attempts at life—one that never had the chance to be. Aware of its utter misery, it still attempted existence. Its human impulse beat strongly. Now it can only muster bleak chords, devastated by time. Its hope lies in a corner under dust and leaves. For it still walks without moving. It still advances without knowing, yet it walks.
It already forgets, no longer bears the scar in its mind— one that leaves no mark on the body—
the heaviness of rising through its buckles, and the lucidity of knowing that it is part of nothing
yet is part of its now.
Where do I walk, and why? I don't know—yet I haven't. If I knew, it would not be in words.
Words that turn yellow in waiting—to express what they cannot. Explain what they do not. To understand what they do not know.
