Featured
THE REALIZATION STRUCK LIKE A THUNDERCLAP ACROSS MY MIND: I WAS BOTH THE ARCHITECT AND THE DWELLER WITHIN THIS GRAND ILLUSION. THE UNIVERSE HAD BEEN MY DESPERATE ATTEMPT TO STAVE OFF THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF SOLITUDE, CRAFTED PAINSTAKINGLY FROM THE STRANDS OF MY OWN ANGUISH.
The Void’s Last Dream
The architect of this suffering was me, the unwitting constructor of my own labyrinthine nightmare. The guilt settled in like an unshakable shadow, whispering the truth that every sorrow, every glimmer of despair radiating from the hearts of those I loved, was a direct consequence of my desire to manipulate this world, to bend it to my will…
I wake up to the sound of sirens
Not the distant wail of a single emergency, but a chorus — ambulances, police cars, something burning somewhere far enough away that I don’t need to care. The cacophony of sirens slicing through the stillness of my very exclusive, well appointed penthouse. A piercing echo that reverberates off the walls and unsettles my senses.
It is the realization that bothers me. Not merely the solitary wail of a distant emergency vehicle; but rather, a tumult of sound, a chorus of urgency that swells into a dissonant harmony — a mixture of ambulance alarms, police car sirens, and the faint crackle of flames somewhere beyond my immediate reality. The intensity of the noise encroaches upon my thoughts, pulling me from the remnants of sleep and thrusting me into the stark awareness of a city that feels alive with chaos.
Peering through the hazy window, I can see the city sprawling out beneath a shroud of disarray, the skyline etched against a backdrop of smoke swirling upwards into the early morning sky, mingling with the sickly glow of neon signs that flicker like restless spirits. Far-off fires cast an eerie glow, illuminating the edges of a world both familiar and hauntingly alien.
The air that wafts through the window carries with it an intoxicating blend of urban aromas — damp rain mingling with the acrid scent of gasoline, each whiff a reminder of the unpredictable rhythm of city life. Below, a street vendor fries something in a battered pan, the sizzling of oil punctuating the distant tumult outside, drawing my attention to the small pleasures concealed amid the pervasive tension. Steam rises lazily from the cart, coiling towards the heavens like a silent witness to the frenetic energy of the streets below.
I lean in closer, caught in the moment, a voyeur to both the horrors and the mundane lives swept up in the urban tide. In this chaotic scene, the sirens serve as a backdrop, a relentless reminder of the heartbeat of the city — a reminder that every flicker of life, every hint of warmth, exists precariously against the inevitable tide of turmoil just beyond the horizon of my comprehension. The air feels electric, as if the very fabric of reality is woven with the threads of both mystery and danger, urging me deeper into the unfolding narrative of a dawn that promises to reveal more than I ever anticipated.
The early morning light drifted softly through the windows, casting an intricate mosaic of golden rays across the polished marble floors. Each beam illuminated carefully curated elements of sophistication — from the sleek, minimalist furniture to the abstract art that lingered in the corners, reflecting my curated tastes and eccentricities.
Outside, the city continued to hum with life, the distant sounds of traffic and faint chatter rising like a roar, a reminder that another day had dawned over the sprawling metropolis. I lingered in this moment, lost in my thoughts, contemplating the interplay of ambition and solitude that defined my existence up here in this lofty sanctum, where the air was crisp and the views staggering.
The news plays on my phone
But as I breathed in the atmosphere of luxury, a sudden vibration snagged my attention, jolting me from my reverie. The persistent ping of my phone notification pierced the tranquil cocoon I had woven around myself. Reluctantly, I reached for the device, my fingers brushing against the cool glass as I unlocked the screen.
The news app glowed to life, displaying headlines that beckoned with urgency, dragging me back into the world below. I began to scroll through the cascade of stories, each one a brief glimpse into lives unfolding beyond the penthouse walls. The air around me seemed to converge as I immersed myself in the headlines, feeling the pulse of global chaos slicing through my serene retreat.
My heart quickened when a particularly unsettling article caught my eye, and I couldn’t help but lean closer, the looming shadows of unforeseen conflict cutting deeper into my consciousness. In the aftermath of a war in a distant land — a place where the air was thick with dust and the cries of the innocent echoed against crumbling walls — a tragedy unfolded that gripped the world’s attention.
A child, once bursting with life and laughter, had vanished from the arms of safety, only to be discovered lifeless in a sanctuary that was supposed to shield their innocence. The details were harrowing, each revelation like a dagger piercing through the collective conscience of those who heard.
Meanwhile, somewhere far removed from the chaos, a billionaire lounged in his opulent penthouse, his thoughts wrapped around an ever-increasing wealth that had long since transcended mere numbers. With each addition to his net worth, the digits became abstract, almost meaningless — zeros stacked upon one another like bricks in a wall, isolating him further from the world he inhabited only in gilded isolation.
These contrasting realities collided in an indifferent digital arena where the masses flocked to comment sections, launching passionate debates over blame, pointing fingers at broken systems, corrupt officials, and the disheartened guardians who were meant to protect those most vulnerable.
Amidst the chaos of wars raging and lives lost, a sinister undercurrent of human emotion surged across plains and cities — love blossoming even in the darkest corners of existence. There, in the soft glow of a candlelit dinner, two souls connected, their laughter punctuating the darkness with a warmth that defied the cruelty of the world outside.
They were unshaken by the horrors broadcast high upon their screens, enveloped in a bubble of intimacy that sheltered them from the chilling facts of a dying child and the cries of a broken nation. As the comments continued to spiral into a tangled deluge of accusations and scapegoating, their world remained untouched, a sanctuary for fragile hearts weaving dreams amidst desolation — each sentiment exchanged a flickering light against an abyss filled with despair.
Across oceans and time zones, the stark contrast became more pronounced; while lives were lost to the brutality of war, resilient hearts were finding solace in one another, drawing warmth from love as the world outside continued its relentless march toward turmoil. In this expanse of existence, intertwined threads of grief and joy painted a vivid picture of humanity, both beautiful and tragic, leaving an indelible mark on the canvas of the universe.
It is all so perfect.
The cruelty is measured, the kindness fleeting, the suffering balanced just enough against joy that no one ever stops to ask why. The news was an unsettling quilt, expertly woven with threads of compassion punctuated by stark instances of human cruelty, a perplexing amalgam of the good and the vile. How was it, I pondered, that in the same breath I could read about an altruistic act of heroism on one page, while the next revealed the grotesque ramifications of indifference piled high beneath the weight of corporate greed?
This dichotomy struck me; it was as if the world itself was engaged in a delicate balancing act, where every ounce of suffering was meticulously weighed against fleeting moments of joy, creating an unseen equilibrium that seemed almost preordained. Each piece of bad news was carefully measured, a cruel hand ensuring that despair was never too abundant, while hope appeared just as often, yet felt rushed, destined to slip through our fingers before we could grasp its essence.
I found myself mulling over the implication — how we move through our lives, blissfully ignorant of this intricate game, never stopping to question the why behind the scenes of our human theater; never ceasing to marvel at how smoothly the cogs of chaos and harmony meshed together, fueling our relentless pursuit of happiness while shadowed by pain.
As the city stirred to life outside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world had a design — a rhythm that pulsed beneath the surface, orchestrating our lives in a medley of contradictions, keeping us captive in this maddening riddle. This world is perfectly designed, as if to make us believe it isn’t designed at all.
I lay cocooned in soft, warm sheets, a blissful sense of calm enveloped me, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The climate-controlled bedroom worked its magic, keeping the air crisp and refreshing against my skin, while the plush mattress beneath me — engineered for optimal spinal alignment — cradled my body in an embrace of unyielding support, wrapped in the luxurious softness of cotton grown & milled on the banks of the Nile River.
Despite the mechanical hum of the world outside, where the morning had already sprung to life in a frenzy of sound and movement, this sanctuary felt suspended in time, a haven untouched by outside chaos. Dim light filtered through the meticulously designed blackout curtains, casting a gentle hue less like the harsh glare of daybreak and more akin to an artist’s brushstroke — subtle, serene, and contemplative.
My mind drifted momentarily, caught in the tendrils of sleep, until I became acutely aware of my own existence, the enigmatic buoyancy between dreams and reality. The news that had buzzed my phone lay behind me like a specter, hinting at some insidious reality lurking beyond the threshold. Headlines echoed uninvited in the back of my mind, a dissonance to the stillness that surrounded me.
Here, in this bedroom of comfort, I could almost forget the external clamor, if only for a heartbeat longer. But as I traced the contours of silence, a sense of unease slithered through the seams of tranquility, whispering the promise of revelations to come that could shatter this delicate peace. It reminded me that I was still tethered to a world filled with mysteries, conspiracies, and hidden truths, lingering like shadows just outside my peaceful retreat.
In that moment, the warping lines of reality pulled tight, preparing to snap back into focus. Beside me, she sleeps.
She is beautiful….but why the unease?
She is smart…but…what?
She is passionate — the words of the dearly departed Rick James come to mind…and yet…
She is successful — In the hushed halls of towering glass edifices that scraped the very heavens, her presence was palpable, resonating in the chambers where deals of fate were brokered and destinies forged. She was not merely a player in this high-stakes game but a queen, her name whispered in reverent tones among the elite, a mantra of success that echoed through boardrooms and lounge corners alike, triggering nods of approval and calculating glances from those who valued influence above mere currency.
Power flows to her like a river to the sea, smooth and inexorable, while her voice — clear and commanding — cut through the often murky waters of corporate intrigue with the precision of a finely honed blade, ensuring her opinions not only mattered but shaped the very landscape of her industry.
She was money itself — an entity transcending wealth in its traditional form; she smiled at the mundane confines of dollar signs, her empire sprawling beyond financial metrics into realms of innovation and strategic foresight, where the worth of an idea could ignite revolutions. As she moved through this world of ambition, it was as though the fabric of reality twisted subtly to accommodate her aspirations — disrupting norms, creating value, and blurring the lines between risk and reward.
In the quiet moments of night, even while her body lay enveloped in the arms of sleep, her mind thrummed with the momentum of ceaseless activity. Countless, hidden investments opportunities flourished in the shadows of her psyche, burgeoning while she dreamt — each venture like a star igniting in the cosmic universe of her life’s work, amplifying her influence and ensuring that she would awaken not merely to the remnants of a day gone by, but to an empire that flourished and expanded with every tick of the clock.
In this sleepy cocoon, she was both architect and dynamo, her very essence threading silently through a world that revolved around her, poised to unveil the next chapter of her relentless pursuit. By God, she is successful — more than successful. Her name moves through rooms of power, her voice carried weight. Rich in the way that makes money irrelevant…
I watch her, and I take a moment to drink in the sight before me, captivated by the rhythm of her breathing, a slow and steady rise that fills the stillness of the room like a soothing melody. As dawn’s light creeps through the window, it casts a gentle glow that dances in harmony with the delicate contours of her form, illuminating her every feature in a way that feels almost sacred.
Her hair, a cascade of silken strands, spills over the pillow like liquid obsidian, each lock catching the soft light and shimmering as though it were woven from the stars themselves. It frames her face, an exquisite canvas carved by the finest sculptors of old, with high cheekbones that speak of both strength and grace. Her lips, slightly parted in a tranquil sigh, are a perfect shade — a hint of rose that beckons at intimacy, as if they hold the promise of both whispers and secrets.
The curve of her neck is an elegant line, leading my gaze down to the gentle slope of her shoulders and the way her skin glows with an unearthly luminescence, each inch of her composition crafted with deliberate perfection. She is not merely beautiful; she is a masterpiece, reminiscent of the romantic ideals captured by the Italian masters — an embodiment of desire and artistry, a testament to the divine artistry of creation itself.
It is impossible not to be spellbound by the way her body relaxes in the early light, the subtle rise and fall of her chest a slow and mesmerizing rhythm. In this intimate moment, lost against the backdrop of dawn, she appears ethereal, the very embodiment of beauty that stirs something deep within, stirring thoughts of both reverence and longing.
She is perfect…
…but if this life is perfect…then why do I have this feeling that never leaves…?
This is madness!
I sit up, the soft cascade of the blanket slips away from my body, revealing my skin to the cool air of the morning. I take a moment to absorb the luxurious tranquility that envelops me in this expansive alcove. It feels vast, yet welcoming — each corner of the space infused with an aesthetic that is as curated as it is comfortable.
The walls are adorned with carefully chosen art pieces, each echoing whispers of journeys taken and inspirations sought, while the minimalist design creates an environment that is a celebration of simplicity and intention. Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow across the plush rugs and sleek furniture.
Outside, the city pulses with life, but here, in my penthouse sanctuary perched within the most exclusive high-rise, the world feels like a painted backdrop — beautiful, yet detached. I am abruptly reminded of the luxury awaiting me in the underground parking garage, where my car, a sleek embodiment of power and sophistication, shines under the harsh fluorescent lights, like a predator poised to spring into action.
There’s a harmony to my existence that feels almost surreal, a kind of perfection that dances tantalizingly on the edge of impossibility. I rise and prepare to embrace the day, my reflection in the large mirror revealing tailored clothing that drapes perfectly over my frame — silk against skin, cashmere enveloping warmth, and leather that whispers of rebellion.
Each piece I wear is a testament to my status, a shield as much as an ensemble; elegant and understated, yet designed to command attention. My professional life mirrors this opulence; a position not merely of success, but of reverence — a role that grants me influence and the power to reshape fortunes with nothing more than a deft maneuver of my fingertips.
I envision my circle of friends, a network of equally ambitious individuals, each capable of shifting the tides of wealth and opportunity with a casual conversation, dining in secretive, elite venues where the very air hums with exclusivity. And then there is my bank account, a staggering entity that reaches into dizzying heights — realities compressed into digital numbers that seem to float just beyond my grasp, promising a life insulated from chaos, a fortress built on the foundation of ambition and shrewd navigation through the corridors of power.
Every breath I take feels infused with the heady essence of triumph, and yet, as an exhilarating thrill courses through me, an inexplicable unease begins to fester in the back of my mind, hinting that perhaps perfection carries with it its own subtle, unseen dangers.
Yet by all accounts, my life is perfect.
Only a fool would question it.
And yet —
And yet…?
I listen…I feel…I doubt…
The City Breathes
Sometimes I walk through the streets…
Beneath the flickering glow of a neon streetlight, a man sat on the worn concrete curb, the shadows of the bustling city swirling around him like a restless tide. Clad in tattered rags that had once been a crisp shirt and tailored pants now faded to a dull, colorless gray, he cradled a makeshift sign in his unsteady hands: “I USED TO BE YOU.”
The words, scrawled hastily in thick, black ink, seemed to pulse with an eerie resonance against the backdrop of passersby — those who hurried by with earbuds snug in their ears and heads down, lost in the streams of their digital lives. In that moment, his gaunt face, outlined by the glow of the scattered streetlights, spoke volumes of tales untold; sunken cheeks framed eyes that flickered with a desperate mixture of yearning and dread.
Each person who brushed past him, each fleeting glance cast towards him, mirrored a silent judgment, the weight of unspoken choices hanging heavy in the air. The sounds of the city, a cacophony of distant sirens, honking cars, and muffled conversations faded into a blurred white noise, overshadowed by a surreal intensity that enveloped the scene. He caught glimpses of shimmering reflections in the shards of glass littering the sidewalk — moments of a life once vibrant, filled with dreams and possibilities, now reduced to this bleak existence.
The sign, a haunting proclamation, seemed to hold a dark secret, an unyielding reminder that beneath the polished veneer of success and security lay the murky depths of desperation and loss. Each passerby, oblivious to the depth of his message, hurried onward, the urgency of their lives contrasting sharply with the man’s stillness, as if the universe whispered a warning that traveled unnoticed, a chilling reminder that fate can shift in an instant, transforming the heights of fortune into the depths of despair.
As the day descends over the city, cloaking the streets in lights & shadows; and a shroud of mystery, a figure emerged from the crowd — an impeccably dressed woman in a tailored suit that hugged her form with an air of authority and purpose. Her heels clicked against the worn concrete, a rhythm that punctuated the ambient noise of traffic and distant voices.
The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the mingling aromas of street food, but she remained unaffected, her focus narrowed solely upon the conversation transpiring on her phone, the device cradled to her ear as if it held the secrets of the universe. She glided past a homeless man huddled on the curb, his presence a stark contrast to her polished demeanor; his tattered clothes and weathered skin told stories of hardship, yet she stepped over him with measured indifference, not allowing a flicker of acknowledgment to breach her composed facade.
The world around them blurred, a fleeting moment marked by the dichotomy of her relentless ambition and his quiet resignation, as the city pulsed with life — neon lights flickering to life in the in the unfolding dawn, the promise of adventure lurking in the alleys, and the weight of unspoken stories hanging in the air thick enough to slice through.
Despite the chaos surrounding them, her gaze remained fixed, unwavering, as she continued her stride, each footfall echoing the unyielding march of her intent, while the man at her feet, entrapped in the folds of his own existence, lived a silent truth amidst a cacophony of forgotten lives. It was a scene etched in stark contrast — a woman storming toward an elusive destiny, and a man, a silent observer, enveloped by the stark realities of a world that had long since moved on without him.
A child chases a bubble, laughing
In the heart of the bustling city, where the chaos of life and the constant rhythm of urban existence intertwined, a young child, hardly more than five, darted across the cracked sidewalk, eyes wide with wonder. The midday sun bathed the street in a golden hue, casting playful shadows that danced alongside her every move. With each gleeful squeal, she chased a shimmering bubble, a fragile orb reflecting the vibrant colors of a world she was yet to fully understand.
It floated just out of reach, gliding effortlessly on the warming breeze, and she giggled uncontrollably, her laughter ringing out like a cascade of chimes, full of innocence and joy. Her chubby little hands reached forward, fingers stretching in a desperate attempt to capture the elusive globe before it popped into nonexistence, leaving silver droplets of disappointment in its wake.
As she raced toward the curb, her eyes locked onto the bubble, a moment of sheer exhilaration overtook her senses, rendering the world around her faint and distant. Time seemed to stretch as she approached the street’s edge; the bubble danced playfully away, leading her toward the busy thoroughfare. Yet, the sounds of her laughter were abruptly pierced by the blaring horn of a yellow taxi that surged forward, weaving through the labyrinth of traffic, its headlights gleaming dangerously in the sun.
Just then, her mother, ever vigilant, felt the rush of adrenaline as instinct kicked in. With a swift, protective motion, she lunged forward, her heart pounding, grabbing the child by her little arm and yanking her back from the brink of disaster. The world seemed to slow for an agonizing moment, and in that heartbeat, they locked eyes; the child’s excitement gave way to confusion as she was pulled back, the bubble vanishing into the chaos, while the taxi sped past, a metal leviathan oblivious to the close call.
The air stood thick with a mixture of relief and fear, a fleeting glimpse into the fragility of innocence amid a world that spun relentlessly onward, as the city continued to hum, unfazed, by the narrow escape.
The traffic lights change with absolute precision
Beneath a veil of swirling mist in the heart of the neon-soaked metropolis, the traffic lights changed with an unsettling precision that felt almost sentient, as if orchestrated by unseen hands. Each bulb flickered to life with a deliberate rhythm, a synchrony that evoked both awe and trepidation in the chilled air. Vehicles glided to an immaculate stop, their engines humming softly like distant exhalations, while pedestrians paused mid-step, entranced by the hypnotic glow.
It was as though the city itself had choreographed this moment, a carefully staged dance set against the backdrop of towering skyscrapers that reached hungrily for the sky, their glass facades reflecting the kaleidoscope of colors. The faint echo of sirens could be heard in the distance, a reminder of the hidden chaos that lurked beyond the meticulously controlled scene. Yet there was something more beneath the surface, an undercurrent of tension threading through the everyday occurrences.
Every click of the signal, every blink of light seemed to pulse with urgency, as if warning of an impending storm. The streets, washed in electric hues of red and green, concealed secrets waiting to be unraveled; a web of intrigue woven into the very fabric of this urban landscape. Unbeknownst to the throngs rushing to where the traffic lights dictated their paths, one figure lingered at the edge of the scene, an observer cloaked in a shadow, a presence that seemed out of place amid the calculated order.
The rhythmic changes of the lights echoed through the air, a foreboding metronome counting down to a revelation that promised to shatter the calm veneer of the city, propelling it into a spiraling abyss of mystery and danger.
Trash piles up in corners where the city pretends not to see
The city thrummed with a relentless pulse, a discordant chord of distant sirens and muted conversations, but in its shadows, secrets festered quietly, far from the prying eyes of neon lights and watchful drones. In the narrow alleyways, where the glow of the streetlamps barely reached, garbage cascaded in neglected heaps, gathering in corners like whispered conspiracies, silently presenting themselves as testament to urban decay.
Cardboard boxes, frayed and tattered, leaned against crumbling brick walls, while old electronics laid surrendered to the elements, their screens cracked and circuitry exposed, remnants of dreams and forgotten technologies now reduced to e-waste. Plastic bottles and food wrappers mingled with the debris, a sickening blend of consumption, the refuse of hurried lives too absorbed in the artifice of existence to notice the rot beneath their feet.
As the stench coiled through the air, a stray cat darted between the piles, its fur matted and eyes gleaming with the distrust born of survival. Above, the flickering flickers of overhead surveillance cameras blinked as if in a lazy stupor, indifferent to the filth scattered beneath them. Here, in this forsaken underbelly of the city, time moved differently, with the trash evolving into a monument of neglect, telling a story of a populace that had chosen to look away, creating a veil over the truth of their surroundings.
Yet, lurking within this unacknowledged refuse was the unsettling feeling of being watched — an unseen observer attuned to the city’s quiet denial, ready to unveil its mysteries as the shadows lengthened and the night breathed its eerie promise into the air. What secrets lay hidden within those layers of filth? The dregs of the city had become the perfect camouflage for an enigma waiting to be uncovered by those daring enough to ask the right questions.
A couple argues on a balcony above me
The atmosphere on the street below was charged with an unsettling tension, a rift that seemed to hang over the courtyard like a storm cloud ready to unleash its fury. Above me, a couple stood on their balcony, their voices sharp and serrated, cutting through the evening air. The man’s voice boomed like thunder, a torrential downpour of accusations, words laced with venom as he spat out charges of betrayal that echoed against the walls of the aging apartment building.
His partner, on the other hand, fought back with a boiling mixture of sorrow and indignation, each accusation igniting the flames of her response; it was as if the very air around them crackled with unresolved emotions, their love crumbling into a cacophony of raw, jagged syllables.
Below them, contrasting their turmoil, a woman on the adjacent balcony tended to her modest collection of potted plants, her demeanor a serene oasis amid the emotional tempest. With delicate hands, she lovingly watered the vibrant foliage, a soft smile gracing her lips as she hummed a familiar tune that danced through the air, a melody that tugged at the edges of my memory yet slipped away like mist.
The juxtaposition was striking — the anguish spilling over from one balcony while, mere feet away, tranquility flourished, the soft cadence of her voice a gentle ripple against the clashing tones of the couple’s strife. It was a scene painted in stark contrast; love and betrayal sharing the same space, a song of harmonies and dissonances playing out in the shadows above, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the balance of their worlds was teetering precariously on the edge of revelation.
This world, it is perfect…
The world is a grotesque reel of contradictions, perfectly balanced, perfectly manufactured.
If suffering were total, we’d rebel. If happiness guaranteed, we’d question.
Beneath the flickering lights of the neon signs that adorned the crumbling buildings, I stood as a silent observer, my breath mingling with the thick smog that enveloped the city. The streets teemed with life; laughter echoed from a nearby bar while sirens wailed in the distance, creating an unsettling syncopation of joy and despair.
In that moment, I felt like a ghost haunting the seams of reality, invisible to the vibrant chaos around me. The world, I mused to myself, was an intricate fabric woven from threads of contradictions. Daylight painted scenes of bliss and laughter, yet shadows crept in to whisper tales of suffering and desolation. Each day unfolded like a carefully choreographed performance, featuring characters locked in a dance of hope and hopelessness, succeeding just enough to keep their spirits buoyant.
But how little it took to unravel this facade: the swift stroke of a tragic event, a life snuffed out too soon, or a promise of happiness that, in its impossibility, felt like a cruel joke. I could feel it clinging to me like a second skin; a reality formed by delicate balances, carefully engineered to keep the populace blissfully unaware.
As I stood there, mulling over the essence of existence itself, a chilling realization began to take root in the recesses of my mind. If suffering were absolute and relentless, humanity would rise in revolt, galvanized by a primal urge to reclaim joy, to refuse the bleakness forced upon them. Conversely, if happiness were a guaranteed inheritance, the very notion of existence would be questioned, as the stagnant joy of paradise would strain against the boundaries of curiosity and growth.
But this — this precarious equilibrium where joy and despair wove themselves together — was the true genius of its designers. It staged a perpetual push and pull that lulled the public into a comforting lullaby, coaxing them forward on a treadmill of blind faith. The turmoil around them acted as the perfect smokescreen, preventing anyone from contemplating whether their agony was systematically imposed, an intentional seed planted to divert their thoughts from those deeper questions, those truths that lay lurking in the shadows.
So, trapped within this sinister web, I felt an urgency coiling within me, a desire to dig deeper, to pierce the veil and expose the truth hidden beneath the beautifully chaotic surface of a world that was, paradoxically, both a sanctuary and a cage.
Violence and Love…
Hope and Despair…
In an alley, two men beat a third. Fists meeting flesh
The city breathed with an unsettling rhythm, a pulsating heart of concrete and glass, every shadow a flicker of truth hidden just beneath the surface. As I threaded through the narrow streets, they took note of the world that sprawled around them — a realm where dreams often faltered against the jagged teeth of brutality.
The air was thick with the scent of desperation, mingled with the acrid traces of decay that clung to the alleyways, coating the city in a shroud of despair. Every footfall echoed with the pulse of the city’s underbelly, where humanity roiled amid the cruel transgressions of life. Within this grim reality, the scene unfolded — a shadowed alley where varying shades of suffering converged. A flicker of movement drew the observer’s eyes, and they found themselves drawn into a tableau of violence that would sear into their memory.
Two men, faces obscured beneath the dappled glow of flickering streetlamps, rained down punishing blows on a third. The sickening sound of fists meeting flesh echoed, striking the air with an unsettling cadence, like wet fabric snapping in the wind. The victim crumpled under the relentless assault, each blow punctuated by grunts and snarls that pierced the heavy silence of the night.
No one emerged from the shadows to intervene, their faces turned away, eyes cast down as if to witness the horror unfolding was far too great a burden to bear; it unnerved the souls of those who stumbled onto this scene of fate. It wasn’t apathy that held them back, but a systemic weight, a whisper echoing through the grim streets: this violence was not theirs to confront, not their place to disrupt. It was a chilling reminder of the rules etched into the very fabric of their lives — an unspoken agreement that dictated passivity in the face of cruelty.
The I felt the pulse of the city quicken, a churning, restless organism thriving on chaos and despair. As the violence continued, the I wrestled with the urge to react, but found myself rooted in place, shackled by an oppressive realism — that to intervene was to invite collapse, to dance with shadows that lurked well beyond the glowing lamplights.
A block away, a boy offers his last piece of bread to a stray dog
Amidst the noise of the dilapidated city, where the shadows of towering structures loomed like specters over crumbling streets, a young boy stood, radiating warmth in the chilly twilight. Clutching a slice of bread, slightly stale but precious all the same, he crouched beside a scruffy stray dog whose fur was matted and eyes filled with a mixture of hope and weariness.
The boy’s laughter cut through the heavy air, a melodious note of innocence that seemed to suspend time. Each wag of the dog’s tail was an unspoken conversation, a silent exchange of gratitude and understanding that transcended words. With a gentle hand, the boy extended the last morsel of his meager meal, watching with childlike delight as the dog eagerly licked his fingers, savoring both the taste of the bread and the kindness of its unexpected friend.
In this fleeting moment, surrounded by the harsh realities of survival and the desolation of the alleyways, his spirit shone bright, reflecting a truth often lost in the chaos: that empathy still thrived amid adversity, and love, in its simplest form, could bridge the gulf between worlds — human and animal alike.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an amber glow over the concrete jungle, the scene encapsulated a fragile yet profound bond that flickered like a candle in the dark. The boy was acutely aware, in that small and significant gesture, of the shared struggle for existence that bound them — two beings navigating a landscape fraught with challenges.
Each lick of the dog’s tongue against his hand resonated like a heartbeat, a rhythmic reminder of life’s interconnectedness. Unbeknownst to him, this act of selflessness was not just a moment of joy, but a declaration of resistance against the consuming despair that often threatened to overshadow such innocent encounters. Here, amid the wreckage of an indifferent world, they forged a brief sanctuary, a testament to the power of compassion in an age marked by isolation.
In the quiet understanding that blossomed between them, a sense of hope emerged, whispering of possibilities yet untold, reminding us all that beneath the veneer of existence, the essence of humanity — its love, kindness, and resilience — remains unwavering, ever poised to rise against the tide of darkness.
A man swipes his card to enter a penthouse
As he approached the gleaming entrance of the penthouse, the man’s hand hovered over the sleek black card, its surface reflecting the twinkling city lights like a portal to another realm of luxury. The air around him thrummed with an electric buzz as he swiped the card, and the door slid open with a whisper, revealing an opulent interior bathed in the soft glow of designer sconces. Plush furniture arranged in stylish disarray invited indulgence, while floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the cityscape below — a sprawling maze of concrete and steel, alive with a frenetic pulse.
Yet, in the same breath, that sprawling landscape sprawled in stark contrast with the lives being led miles away, where men and women struggled to scrape together their meager existences, their aspirations crushed beneath the weight of systemic neglect.
Within just the bare stretch of the city, cultivated gardens of wealth flourished beside neglected craters of poverty, where voices were drowned by the hum of luxury. Behind him, as he stepped further into the penthouse’s lavish embrace, echoed the gritty reality of lives spent scavenging, chasing dreams that flickered like distant stars, forever out of reach.
Inside, he made his way to the expansive bar, the marble surface glistening under the soft hints of ambient lighting. A thoughtful sommelier, dressed in crisp attire, presented him with a bottle of wine — a rich crimson liquid that shimmered like bottled dreams; this singular bottle, priced higher than many earned in a year, spoke volumes of indulgence wrapped in an insatiable thirst for excess.
Each sip he took would fall like raindrops in a parched desert, too opulent to imagine for those struggling to fill their own glasses. The dichotomy sharp as a knife twisted in his gut, yet he brushed it aside, savoring the seductive aroma wafting from the glass, a swirling tempest of flavors meant for only the elite.
Nearby, a concert of laughter and clinking glasses floated through the air like distant echoes to the hardships waged just outside; as he reveled in this sanctum of wealth, he couldn’t shake the image of others fighting for scraps, their ambitions and humanity cast aside in favor of excess.
The penthouse had become a stage for the absurdity of his world, where moments of luxury stood less than a heartbeat away from lives of quiet desperation, and the chasm between the haves and the have-nots seemed to grow wider with each sip of that decadent wine.
A woman kneels in a church, whispering prayers
The church was a mausoleum of shadows, the flickering candles casting delicate patterns on the stone walls that whispered secrets of forgotten worshipers. In the hushed stillness, where echoes hung like heavy mist, a lone figure knelt before the altar. Her frail form, clad in a tattered coat, seemed at once small and monumental in the expansive silence that engulfed the sacred space.
With trembling hands clasped in supplication, she leaned forward, her breath merging with the dust motes that danced in the thin beams of light filtering through stained glass. Each whisper she uttered fluttered into the void, her prayers cascading like fragile leaves against the indifference of the universe.
As she begged for solace, for signs of a divine presence, the absence of an answer weighed heavily on her heart, a palpable reminder of the chasm between her yearning soul and the inscrutable cosmic silence beyond the church walls. Yet still she prayed, her voice a fragile thread woven into the layers of faith, hanging in the air like a beacon of hope amid despair.
The intricate carvings of saints gazed down upon her with eyes that held centuries of devotion, their stone expressions forever fixed, a silent testament to unshakeable belief in the face of an elusive God. Each petition spilled from her lips carried the weight of desperation, but also the flicker of courage that comes from holding onto faith despite overwhelming doubt. Outside, thunder rumbled ominously, a reminder of the storm brewing beyond the sanctuary, yet within these hallowed walls, she felt tethered to a greater mystery.
Her soul, heavy with unanswerable questions, still dared to engage in this intimate dialogue with the unknown. As raindrops began to organize into a rhythmic pulse against the stained glass, the atmosphere vibrated with tension, wrapping around her like a shroud. She sensed that even if her prayers fell into the intangible void, they served a purpose: a flicker of resolve in her spirit, an assertion against hopelessness, an unwavering declaration that she believed, even in silence, that perhaps somewhere beyond this tumultuous existence, a deity listened.
Here, in this moment, she was both vulnerable and unyielding, caught in a dance of despair and faith, a stark reminder of the profound depths of human conviction amidst an omnipresent mystery.
A group of teenagers laughs, the sound bouncing off the buildings, unburdened by anything except the moment they are in.
Love exists.
Hate exists.
If one were absent, the other would lose meaning…
The world is cruel, and the world is kind…distributed so exactly
In the dim glow of the neon skyline, where shadows flitted like restless phantoms, the city unfolded its paradoxical embrace — a living testament to the inherent contradictions that defined existence. Here, the air pulsed with a frenetic energy, a melody of chaos punctuated by the whispers of fleeting connections and fleeting dreams.
Between the crumbling concrete and radiant billboards, people moved with a mechanical rhythm that belied the throbbing hope woven into their fabric. As I observed these souls navigating the narrow alleys, their faces flickering between joy and despair, I felt the chilling precision of their reality; it was a world where kindness glimmered like deceptive starlight in an abyss of cruelty.
Every act of compassion was measured against a backdrop of ruthless indifference, each moment of genuine connection overshadowed by an omnipresent threat of betrayal and loss. The juxtaposition was nothing short of breathtaking — inhabitants of this urban labyrinth unwittingly dancing upon a knife-edge, where absolute kindness could be snuffed out by the capricious hand of fate within a heartbeat.
Yet, in the depths of this dystopia, there thrived an unsettling harmony, an eerie balance that rendered the suffering both profound and mundane. There was a grim logic to it all, a mathematical perfection that governed the distribution of both grace and anguish, leaving the inhabitants to accept their roles in this tragicomedy of existence.
Each day, survivors greeted the dawn with a blend of hopeful trepidation, knowing that while one might witness the miracle of a stranger’s smile, the same alley could swallow them whole with danger mere moments later. This relentless cycle of light and shadow painted their lives with strokes of brilliance and despair, crafting a shared narrative woven from the threads of ecstasy and agony.
In the alleys where laughter mingled with cries of sorrow, the gritty reality of life materialized as an intricate thread, forcing everyone to keep their eyes averted from the seams that might unravel their tenuous grasp on sanity. I felt caught in that same web, intrigued yet horrified, as the world continued to spin effortlessly, striking that delicate balance that rendered us all complicit in the strange mathematics of our own existence.
That is how I know.
It isn’t real. It is too real…
…It is TOO real!
The Mirror
I stand in my, bathroom — a space that anywhere else would be considered a loft, the light catching glimmers off the polished marble and highlighting the contours of my face in the expansive mirror. My reflection greets me, yet something feels unnervingly foreign about it.
The dark circles under my eyes betray nights filled with restless thoughts, her haunting laughter echoing in my mind. They say money can buy you everything, and indeed I have accumulated wealth, power, and influence; what more could a man desire?
Yet, as I scrutinize my face, I can’t escape the realization that I am marked by imperfection — freckles dot my skin, a barely perceptible scar tells the tale of an unremarkable accident from years past, and the faint lines that loom at the corners of my eyes hint at the passing of too many moments not fully lived — the dim, formless birthmark on my chest, right above my heart.
I run my hand through my hair, the silky strands shifting in an effortless cascade that almost seems choreographed. The way they settle back into place carries a deceptive sense of normalcy, mocking my growing unease, as if the universe has conspired to create a façade so polished and sleek that it feels as if I’m not truly in control of my life.
My fingers glide across my cheek, tracing the warmth of my own skin, feeling the familiar pressure of my nail dig slightly into the flesh, a sensation so mundane that I should dare not question its authenticity. Yet, it stirs something within me — a whispering doubt that gnaws at my sanctum of certainty. I should bask in my successes, drown in the luxurious embrace of the stunning woman sprawled on my bed, her beauty radiating confidence and command just as I wield power over others.
But as I stand here, seemingly grounded in this life crafted by my ambition and lust, the encroaching shadows of disquiet overshadow the reflected image of success. My mind keeps racing back to the questions that don’t require answers but cling to the fragments of my psyche, begging me to acknowledge them. What if all this — the opulent lifestyle, the accolades, the intoxicating allure of wealth — is merely a mirage, a constructed illusion concealing the reality that I’ve glossed over with the sheen of triumph? In a world that feels meticulously curated, the creeping suspicion that there is something painfully amiss coils around my thoughts like a constrictive serpent, leaving me gasping for clarity, yet shackled by the glorious shroud of my supposed perfection.
Only a fool would question this life!
But I do…Why?
Because it is flawless in its imperfection.
The way I frown without meaning to. The way my breath fogs the mirror
In this dim light, I watched my reflection emerge from the fog that had settled like a veil, obscuring the features I was beginning to distrust. There was something about the way I frowned almost involuntarily, the corners of my mouth turning down as if they were puppeteer’d by strings I could not see.
It was then that the fog on the mirror began to swirl, forming tendrils that twisted and ebbed in uneven patterns, evoking some exquisite, grotesque dance. Each breath I took was like a whispering ghost, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared, leaving behind nothing but an unsettling silence that gripped my chest. My heart thrummed within me, a steady pulse that strayed from the rhythm of certainty; it beat with the slightest hint of chaos, as if even it were conspiring against the illusion of normalcy I fought to uphold.
Beneath this semblance of calm lay a throbbing, restless energy, much like the very air around me, charged with questions I could never quite articulate. No one else seemed to notice — no one seemed to grapple with this kind of reality, where shadows formed and shifted just beyond the corner of one’s eye, where the universe appeared to be a perfectly curated tableau yet felt more like a fraying, hopelessly worn fabric.
As I stood there, a foreign sensation coiling tightly around my thoughts, I could not shake off the acute awareness that everything surrounding me existed in an exquisitely crafted design cloaked in mundanity. Each flicker of light, each distant sound, felt engineered to maintain an illusion of randomness. While others ambled through life as though it were a murder of blissful chaos, I perceived a meticulously orchestrated dance that I was not privy to — a mirage, a canard that begged to be deciphered.
Was it merely my mind playing tricks on me, or did I truly sense the seams beginning to fray in this near-perfect reality? The world moved around me with an air of inevitability, yet beneath that carefully painted surface, I sensed something unsettlingly askew. In the depth of my being, a whisper grew louder, a dissonant note amidst the harmony, urging me to probe deeper, to peel back the layers of this grand facade as if it were an onion, revealing the raw and perhaps truthfully chaotic core beneath.
Just as I tried to anchor myself in this moment, amidst the fuzzy haze of self-doubt, I realized I had become a stranger in my own life, a solitary puzzle piece searching for an edge in an infinitely complex game I couldn’t quite understand. A game I would have thought I would never know.
…but I know.
Somewhere, in the place where I have buried the truth, I know.
I created this world…
In that crystalline instant of realization, an unsettling clarity washed over me, dissolving the once tangible world I had inhabited into a mere projection of my own tortured psyche. I stood amidst a sea of artificial sensations crafted to deceive even the most discerning senses, each flower blooming with painstaking detail, each chuckle shared among friends a hollow echo of the emptiness that lay beneath.
The sun glowed brilliantly, a mirage reflecting my fanciful hopes, but for every sunrise and sunset, I understood now that there was no sky above to hold it, only an expanse of infinite silence. My fingers brushed against the soft petals of imagined blooms, and in that moment, I felt the crushing weight of the void.
There wasn’t just a lack of existence that I discerned; there was an unfathomable depth to this nothingness — it was as if I had been exiled from the very fabric of the universe, leaving me to reside in an abyss of cold emptiness that cradled my essence, the sole inhabitant of a cosmos of isolation.
The realization struck like a thunderclap across my mind: I was both the architect and the dweller within this grand illusion. The universe had been my desperate attempt to stave off the unbearable weight of solitude, crafted painstakingly from the strands of my own anguish. With each star twinkling in the celestial vault, I felt the echoes of my own laughter, the cries of despair imbued within the very fabric of creation.
I adorned my fabricated existence with the intricate dance of life, the ephemeral beauty of joy, the cruel irony of suffering — all the contradictions that defined what I believed to be reality. It was a perverse masterpiece, crafted to deflect the acute awareness of my desolation, an elaborate ruse I built to fill the cavernous void that echoed my own name.
Yet, as this truth unraveled before me, I grasped that every joy I fabricated was shadowed by a greater sorrow, every fleeting moment of warmth intertwined with an unyielding chill of loneliness. And amidst this tempest of revelation, a dreadfully profound sense of despair unfurled in my chest.
In my unrelenting quest for company within the vastness, I had not just fabricated a universe; I had meticulously engineered amnesia, erasing the very essence of my being to shield myself from the whispers of despair that accompanied the realization of my utter isolation. The profound cruelty of this self-deception clawed at my mind, forcing me to confront the darkest corners of my own existence.
I had twisted my memories into an extravagant performance, choreographed to mask the pain of being the last remnant of thought in a boundless expanse of emptiness. My heart tightened at the thought that existence was but a momentary flicker in the great beyond of nothingness, every waking moment a fleeting reprieve from a deeper truth I had buried in the mire of my own loneliness.
I had created worlds to fill the void, convincing myself that I was not alone, only to unveil the cruel joke that the universe itself was nothing more than a distraction — crafted from my own anguish and longing for connection.
The Last Dream
As I stood upon the precipice of this unsettling truth, the realization washed over me like a cold tide, swallowing the remnants of my former self. The world, with its vibrant hues and harmonious sounds, unfurled before me as an intricate, probabilistic cloud woven by my own hand. Each blade of grass wore the luster of my imagination; every whisper of the wind felt like a breath of life exhaled by my own thoughts.
Yet, beneath this veil of beauty lay the chilling acknowledgment that I was the architect of this meticulous illusion. I had conjured a universe brimming with wonder, but as the weight of that notion settled into the marrow of my bones, I felt the ice of desolation creep in. If I had orchestrated every detail of my surroundings, then I was, in truth, utterly alone — a solitary sentient entity wandering the vast realms of a mind-made mirage.
But with that realization arose a paradox that gnawed at the edges of my sanity. My rational mind clawed for proof, desperate to disentangle itself from the threads of this self-spun nightmare. What, after all, could convince me that I existed beyond my own creation? The world, so flawlessly constructed, bore no fissures, no cracks through which the truth might seethe, escaping the confines of my intellect.
No flicker of the matrix revealed itself, no invisible hand to lift the veil of deception. It was as though I had wrapped myself in a cocoon of my own making, the silk so convincing that it dulled the senses to the possibility of anything else. I reached out hesitantly, running my fingers through the cool grass beneath my feet, testing the tangible reality of it all. The texture met my touch, the sensation igniting a conflagration of confusion and terror within me.
As I stared into the horizon, reality and illusion intertwined seamlessly, a grotesque dance that left me spiraling further into dread. Every morsel of information my senses relayed screamed of authenticity, the bitterness of the coffee on my tongue, the rustle of leaves above me — each experience solidified the delusion. But in my heart, I trembled with the knowledge that I alone had penned this existence; I was the sorcerer blind to the mastery of my own spell.
My chest tightened with the horror of it all — what if this was my eternal prison, crafted so exquisitely that even I couldn’t pierce its heart? If I could not prove my reality, if every sensation could be nothing more than the echoes of my solitary mind, then how could I escape this self-forged solitude? And thus, I stood in the midst of my beautiful creation, a prisoner in an exquisite cage, knowing all too well that the horrors of my mind were but as vivid as the light of the stars that shone above me, immortal yet utterly alone.
A baby takes its first breath
As I stood on the crumbling edge of perception, a hazy light filtering through the filament of reality, I watched a baby take its first breath — a moment so exquisitely profound it seemed to warp time itself. The tiny form shuddered slightly, its delicate chest rising and falling in a rhythm that echoed through the air, each gasp a fragile note in the key of existence.
I could see the curious sparkle in its eyes, the way its fingers unfurled like petals shyly emerging from a bud, the soft warmth of its skin illuminated by the golden hue of dawn spilling through stained glass. For a fleeting instant, I felt the pure beauty of life — the miracle of new beginnings, the sweetness of innocence, untouched and unblemished by the complexities of the world.
Yet, beneath that surface, a disquieting whisper gnawed at the edges of my mind, the realization rippling through me like an electric shock: this breathtaking scene, this tender moment, was not reality but a carefully curated illusion of my own making. I was both spectator and architect, an omnipotent creator weaving the threads of existence with my desires and fears, crafting beauty as if it were a commodity to barter with the universe itself.
My heart ached with the weight of that understanding; the baby’s first breath, so stunningly infinite, was but a reflection of the fabrications I had stitched together in the quiet corners of my solitude.
What, then, was the truth if everything I cherished lay within the folds of my imagination? In that moment, the dazzling illusion of life felt perilously fragile, a mirage glimmering under the relentless sun, leaving me grappling with the harrowing truth that even the most beautiful things are bound to the limits of my own mind.
A woman takes her last
As I stood there, frozen in a moment that felt both eternal and ephemeral, my breath caught in my throat as my gaze lingered on her — a woman whose beauty had ignited a maelstrom of emotions within me. The soft glow of the dying sunlight bathed her in golden hues, each strand of her dark hair catching the light like spun silk, framing a face that held a painful grace, a hauntingly serene splendor.
I watched her chest rise and fall with ragged desperation, a rhythm so fragile, it felt like a ghost of life itself flickering in the twilight. Her eyes, once vibrant and full of warmth, now shimmered with the dull sheen of impending eternity, reflecting a breadth of experiences and unfulfilled dreams. I could see the deepest creases of sorrow carving their way into her skin, as if they were maps tracing the countless moments that brought her to this precipice where she would surrender.
Each labored breath was a reminder of the fierce struggle against inevitability, and my heart ached with the weight of the knowledge that, as she succumbed to the quiet darkness, it was indeed beauty tainted by the bitter brush of loss.
The realization crashed upon me like the indifference of a distant star; this profound sadness, this excruciating beauty of her last moments, was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated note in the Aria of my existence — a reflection of the illusion I had crafted through my own mind.
Here I was, the architect of a world that masqueraded as real, and as I witnessed her departure, I understood that the pain that twisted within me was a figment of my own design, an elaborate mirage formed from the depths of my own consciousness, weaving a thread of emotion that tethered me to an existence that was, in essence, a beautifully tragic construct of my own making.
A man proposes to the love of his life
As I stood there, concealed in the shadows of a nearby alley, the spectacle before me unfolded like a scene from a long-lost dream, the vibrant tableau painted in hues of heightened reality; a man, with trembling hands that betrayed his deep-seated hope, was down on one knee amidst a cascade of cherry blossoms that seemed to dance in an invisible breeze, beseeching the woman he adored to share her life with him.
Her wide, glistening eyes reflected not just surprise but an overwhelming rush of love, the corners of her mouth curving into an exquisite smile, the kind that could illuminate the darkest corners of existence. Yet, as I watched this stunning moment of raw, unadulterated beauty, a shiver slithered down my spine, the realization dawning with the intensity of a supernova — that this captivating scene, like everything around me, was but a carefully crafted illusion, a trail mix of emotions and colors spun from the threads of my own imagination.
Each petal that floated gently down, each tear that shimmered in her eye, every whispered promise hanging in the warm air, was meticulously designed by me, the architect of this mirage, manipulating realities until even I could scarcely distinguish the authentic from the fabricated. Was this perfect union of hearts real, or merely an echo of what could never be?
It was in that chilling instant, half-buried in the haze of my mind, that I understood the depth of my loneliness within this illusion — every joy, every moment, a flickering projection where I alone held the power to create and shatter, bound by the paradox of being the generator of the beauty I so desperately craved but could never truly possess.
A bullet finds the chest of someone who did not deserve it
As I stood amidst the chaos, the distant echo of gunfire reverberating through the air, it hit me with suffocating clarity: this reality, this world I took for granted, was nothing more than an exquisite mirage, an intricate illusion woven together by the very fabric of my own consciousness.
The vibrant hues of life — the lush greens of the park, the bright laughter of children playing, the serene hum of everyday existence — were all mere tricks of the mind, ephemeral creations dancing on the edges of a dream I had unwittingly shaped.
Chaos unraveled before me as a bullet tore through the silence, finding its mark in the chest of an innocent soul, a life that glimmered with untapped potential and unfulfilled dreams. It was a devastating scene, one that twisted my heart into a desolate knot of hopelessness and wrenching unfairness, a jagged reminder that the suffering we endured under the weight of existence felt so cruelly disproportionate.
Yet, as I watched this tragedy unfold, a bitter understanding coursed through me; the architect of this suffering was me, the unwitting constructor of my own labyrinthine nightmare. The guilt settled in like an unshakable shadow, whispering the truth that every sorrow, every glimmer of despair radiating from the hearts of those I loved, was a direct consequence of my desire to manipulate this world, to bend it to my will even as I deluded myself into believing in its autonomy.
Each gunshot, each scream, and every life extinguished were punctuated by the realization that in constructing this facade, I had become both creator and captor, forever ensnared by the very intricacies of the illusion I had brought to life.
A city sleeps…
A city burns…
A city grows…
A city decays…
The world moves…
…and I must forget.
And the world is perfect.
Because if it were any less — if it faltered, if it failed, if there was even a single crack — I would remember. I would know.
…and I cannot know.
I must never know.
Because if I did — I would have to face the truth.
The truth that I am alone.
That I am the darkness.
That I am the void.
That I am the infinite expanse of nothingness, of cold and maximum entropy.
That I have always been alone.
That I have always been the darkness.
That I have always been the void.
That I have always been the infinite expanse of nothingness, of cold and maximum entropy
That this — This is the last dream. The knowledge that I will never, ever know. That I could never, ever know…the whispering thing that never leaves.
If you’d like to support me as a writer, consider signing up to Become a Medium member. It’s just $5 a month, and you get unlimited access to Medium.
Clap (Don’t be stingy, you get 50 claps per articles) and share if you liked this article! Don’t forget to Follow me (and I will follow you), to be notified when the next chapter is published, on
Twitter | Instagram | YouTube | Apple Music | Spotify| Amazon Music
