I
don’t know how you exist, and if you do: what are you doing and where you are.
Are you yourself on your own, or somewhere unfavorable stranger again. I wonder
if your world has regained color, or it remained completely the same – full of
black and white static. In this age, when we broke ourselves to dust… so that
the desert in my heart can carry your name.
With
pale fatigue I recall and thoroughly gain consciousness that I have failed and
betrayed you. My treacherous nature knows no bounds. And at times when I only
wish that sorrow should be made of ice, in order to fully melt in summer, I
come to understand that I don’t deserve that as much as I deserve Prometheus’s
chained cursed faith. Now, when my mistakes are counted with you, I realize that hell is
irrevocably the consequence of me.
In
this life, when everything shatters into pieces… everything, but the pain.
