L'absent
À ma manière 🪦
- Aug 18, 2024
- 1,103
Time, in its infinite indifference, knows no mercy. It proceeds with the impassive calm of a river slowly eroding the stone, wiping away the traces of our existence, one after another. It is not a concept, nor an abstract measurement, but a tangible force that shapes reality, deforming it, bending it to its will. Every passing moment is an act of erasure, a page torn from the book of life that will never find its place in a future that already fades away.
In the shadow of every moment gone by, all that was vibrant with energy and hope reduces to dust, and memory, the witness to the beauty that once was, dissolves with the same inexorability as time that devours everything. Dreams, promises, experiences that once had the power to define an existence are consumed in an act of infinite indifference, like wax melting under fire. And man, in his vanity, is forced to observe his own transience, powerless to stop this spiral that engulfs him.
The body, once lively and vibrant, loses its original form, revealing the fragility of an organism that, though seemingly eternal, is destined to disintegrate. The appearance that for years defined us shatters into thin lines, marks that tell stories now distant. Thus, youth, which seemed to be an eternal promise, becomes a faded memory, an uncertain vision of a face that no longer exists. Beauty itself, imprisoned by a time that shows no mercy, fades under the weight of its own expectations, reducing itself to a pale shadow of what it once was.
The past, once seeming a safe refuge, now transforms into a prison where memories are nothing but invisible chains that bind us to what is no longer. Yet, nothing of what was will ever be returned. Our illusions, once seemingly necessary to give meaning to what we lived, now become ghosts that haunt our reflections. Each passing day does not add value to existence, but carefully erases every trace of it.
The future, so eagerly sought and dreamed of, loses all consistency, becoming a blurred entity that does not belong to us. The horizon fades, while the present, though so tangible, is destined to dissolve immediately after being lived, as if it never existed. Hope itself becomes a fragile concept, trapped in the quicksand of time that crushes all.
And so, in the silence of a reflection that fades into melancholy, remains the bitter and clear awareness that time is not our enemy, but our master. A master who grants no respite, who listens to no pleas, and cares not for our regrets. In this void surrounding us, the only truth that emerges is that nothing was ever truly ours, that everything is destined to dissolve, to be lost in the abyss of non-being, in the silence that follows the end of every breath.
