Life feels absurdly heavy today. The moon hangs like a beacon in the sky, and the streets are illuminated by its brief and almost unnoticed halo. My mind struggles to silence the echo of the past; old memories intertwine with new feelings. I feel defenseless, wondering if I am now more mature or if it's a different kind of maturity that envelops me. Perhaps that earlier version of myself was braver than this one, which is beginning to be carried away by the cowardice that comes with feeling the end so close. Because there will be an end, and when it arrives, I will feel that there was so much left undone.
Life presents itself to me as a labyrinth, and in the freedom of my imagination, I can transport different versions of myself to other times. I believe that this is one of the roots where anxiety begins to seep in. These chapters lead me nowhere; they are distracted scribbles that lead me to lose the little sanity to which I still cling. All the steps I've taken seem predestined and, at the same time, so arbitrary. My madness resembles a paradox, a premonition, as if my soul were a serpent consuming its own tail.
Is there any meaning in the patterns of my history, in the constellations I imagine when I close my eyes? Philosophers speak of the absurd, of the Sisyphean task of seeking purpose in a universe that offers none. However, are we not artists of our own destiny, capable of painting meaning on the blank canvas of the void?
I observe while the city sleeps, embracing its distant heartbeat, its smell of asphalt, its indifferent humidity. I pause to think about those who came before me, about the stories of gods and monsters, about how that mythology was created, about the timelines in the tree of my life. The voices of the past whisper to me; is it not my voice speaking to me in the silence? Could it be the product of the millennia that hide within the matter that makes up my being? I seek my peace in the warmth of another's smile; I desire to validate my essence, for them to tell me that I am good so I can begin to believe it, to sculpt myself a new truth.
The sky begins to bleed tones of gold and crimson, and with it comes a very pleasant tranquility. The knots of life unravel, and the same uncertainty becomes desire. We stand amid the ruins of the past, with quiet rebellion, and understand that we are the architects of our destiny. We dance in the absurd and savor our pale existence, we find joy in things without answers and learn in insomnia that anxiety happens at night.
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