All is darkness

I guess in our lives we’ve all eventually looked forward to make some impossibles become possible. For sure we have, in certain occasions, tried harder than it would feel the situation could ever justify, for it all progressed into a clearly dysfunctional sort of spiral. The vortex is strong in these moments; you’re gone already, and fighting’s the worst you could do if your aim is to find any exit or any light still within it.

But why pursue what is calmly dead and hardly coming to life? Why not simply let yourself be pulled in and washed out the very next second, and then come afloat and breathe your way into a new more beautiful obliviousness — another, finally plausible love?

I believe the truth to loves who’re meant to be hardly possible (and for whatever reason might they be reckoned as so), is that all that emotion slowly falls so drowsy that its ashes soon surprise us when they suddenly appear already bedding a most silky field of tiny wild flowers, dark ones, for although as rare may black flowers be, it’s only fitting that from such a dying feeling should sprout similarly hued life; and yes, as hard as it can be to accept, darkness is still life in the end. I’m only sad to not be capable of admiring it; my eyes aren’t clean or cold enough for such a task.

And the issue is this tendency which comes with the development of an habituation to this dark garden we can’t, however, describe thoroughly. Honestly, it’s not a choice nor a craving for any of these dark mysteries and dying lights that makes us its gardeners, it’s that life takes us hostages of the circumstances, and soon we’re found routinely watering what needs no watering and surveying what would keep growing just fine on its own.

You wonder what’s your role then… in this self-striving so black and lively hill. You get no answer from anyone, let alone from the flowery defunct-like mound itself. And in this lack of replies you may find your answer, and you may not like it but it’s the only one you’ll get, invariably:

That almost nothing is meant to either make sense or matter; and what sometimes seems to mean something brighter, might very well shortly mutate into another single blossom up on that field — not fairer or darker than all those encircling it — just as black.

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