Dust

2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43

When you get tired of being bad, dull grayness will come. The feeling of guilt is like a torch that fell into a swamp at night, only the sound is heard sucking your anger into infinity, and only the slime is in your hands, you feel your way through it, kneeling, but still upright, your mouth is filled with a disgusting mass of apologies, this is vomiting, on the contrary, the entire world reserve of correctness is erupted into you, the sense of smell is associated with vision, this smelly, decaying opinion about you is so clearly visible, the fumes are visible, the poisonous gas of rotting attempts to understand that you are you, no, it's not time yet, the swamp does not end where you end, for a long time the chirping of fear will not be heard, the cries of the caller warm the ossified membranes, these vibrations of life in this grayness, where are they from, and it doesn't matter, because you yourself yell into this swamp mass, your hand reaches up and grabs an invisible staff, past, fingers are looking for, sorting out notes, squeezing out every grain of sand, time is up, sleep my hero, you were dead brave.

There is no need to say that you are bad or what you are not, we will not be able to understand this forever, this is only a myth born in the depths of a swamp from the howling of a wolf and hooting of an owl, a myth that revives dullness, but does not paint it. Forget, understand, this is just a midnight fantasy, and you are her God, lurking on the side of the mountain, just in the vomit of your swamp, the wine spread over the surface with an acid trickle, mixing with time, with shame, so thick, viscous, so disgusting, hands smear it on the face, lumps of fear mixed with decomposed anger, the texture of rotting grass, many, many tears, no air, and hands sticking out to help, dirty, disgusting helping hands, experiences have evaporated from the dawn, oh, what a wonderful vision this dawn is over a swamp blazing with invisible flame, if you look into your eyes, you can see this flaming torch that you are looking for inside the motionless shadow of the ocean, you look away, yes, I understand, it's hard to look at patience, so much anger wakes up in the depths of the ancient forest, the winds carry the spirit of devastation and the courage to stay alive in the midst of this crazy celebration of life.

When everything that was leaves, humanity remains, you feel its presence, like a subtle aroma of an exquisite perfume, capable of breaking the stench of a swamp with its frantic energy of life, being imprinted forever into your receptors and living there forever, even after the disappearance of you as a form bearing the symbol of death after birth, humanity appears in absolute emptiness, in perfect density, in a swamp, in the sky above him, you see her, no, you feel her, you are she, no, she is what tears you into atoms, making your attachment to the form and essence, the swamp is not familiar with the aromas of life, it consists of the exhalation of your stories about yourself in the form of visions and ravings that have occupied your soul, humanity gives birth to you again and again, neural connections are tirelessly breaking, forming an unthinkable network of broken lives of your myriad copies, and here you are on your own, breathed in the whole swamp with calm ammmmmm, now you pull your hands into it from yourself, mentally, freeze, feel its cooling current, exhale cosmic cold and billions of planets fly up like dust particles into the vacuum of your burnt out conceit. You are only dust disturbed by a frightened hummingbird.