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Love. Humanity’s greatest downfall. Harboring possessiveness within, it sinks into the mire of habit. Making no difference at all, it flows down the waterfall of intoxication, creating the proof of existence and inspiring boundless trust.

Happy marriages. An extinguished candle. Selves clinging to an unclaimed life…

Love. The greatest enemy. The smell of spoiled cheese, and the pleasure derived from that stench. Selves shrinking ever smaller… An egg dropping to the floor. Inside, a dead chick that yearned to live. That is all love is. Lived merely for the sake of possession, and denied as if to deceive death itself.

Must one always remain a child? Or simply deceive oneself?

Foolish Romeo and pitiful Juliet. You taught us to perish from our own blindness, to murder the self for the sake of possessing. You taught us to spill the rice in our hands to the ground, grain by grain, the turning of the wheels, and the meaninglessness in the ticking of a clock.

Foolish me and pitiful you. Dragged along inside a circle…

Waiting, waiting, waiting. The erratic meaning of cigarette smoke. Pale lights in the silence of the street. Lost meanings reviving in the mind. The blurred reflection in the glass. A presence casting doubt on identity. That very moment where looking and seeing diverge. The ambiguity between sleep and wakefulness. The human is a stray dagger. In the diary of the dead. Oblivion is the only truth. Watching the unfolding events, alone.

Which dead shall write? The one buried without a shroud. The one having lost the soil meant to be cast upon it. Wandering to find a shovel, only to become lost; semicolon… the helpless symbol of the paper. The most senseless grief of a years-long struggle. Living for nothing, simple as dying for a diary. As much as the meaning of life. As much as a soul. As much as the earth trodden upon at the end of wars fought in blood. As much as the semicolons defining this soil as a homeland;

I saw a mother at the classroom door. Downtrodden, yet just as hopeful. Watching her testament reflected in the glass with timid eyes. Inside is warm and devastating. The confidence within the hunched posture. Trying to crush the bitter burden of life. A face accustomed to denying the destiny it carved for itself. Sad, yet smiling. Reflecting what lies in the eyes, unable to hide it. A life tethered by a first cry after sacrificing one’s own existence for naught. Just a sentiment. The child is still small, unaware of most things.

Sacrifice is often a cliché. The child does not understand. But it will. Time will pass while glancing sideways at the glass. An unstoppable momentum. Moments harboring deep regrets. Those words that never escape the lips. A heavy weight gathering in the heart. Those meaningless words that strike like lightning in an instant, yet are poured into speech only when all is lost. A reckoning that can never be settled, no matter what we do. A very heavy toll. If only some things were understood from the very beginning. If only throats did not have to bear the burden of belated words.

Hours, days, months, and years. A long stride within time. A brief expanse of time occupying space within the fleeting time of the cosmos. The torment of silence. The wandering words of dreams. A multitude of words forgotten upon waking. Harboring the weight of life. The relentless fatigue of the vocal cords. Pregnant with only a mere whisper.

Sleeplessness. For some, it is the greatest truth… the greatest quest. It is the first cause of the dreaminess that emerges in the dark. One begins with it, and ends with it. It is the greatest love a person can possess. One grows weary of the nothingness of night, yet still longs to possess it with one’s whole being. It lends new meaning to the glances cast toward the ceiling. One wants to cut loose from everyone one knows—to slip free of the world’s ceaseless flow within the silence of one’s sleeplessness.

One looks outside from behind the curtain. One greets the streetlights that brighten the darkness. They are the only companions. Hasn’t everything begun from nothing anyway? Deep down one knows that everything was once born in darkness. It is like the sense of safety inside a cave, or the peace felt while it rains. One is dependent on sleeplessness.

At a sound, one startles. At the first light appearing… at a rooster’s crow. With daylight’s arrival, everything has burned away before the first spark even shows. With people’s endless bustle, all bustle is already ended. As the voices rise, one no longer knows what to do. Even the smoke of one’s cigarette blurs in the day…

The time has come to face the greatest fear. One gets into bed. Closes one’s eyes and greets it again. Yet one cannot escape the hazy world within one’s thoughts. One thinks. One reconstructs all that has been lived. One tries to reorder the words that once left one’s mouth, tries to soothe oneself with events that never were.

There is a moment when one is certain one will never possess happiness—when all that darkness, all that sorrow, all of it comes to an end. One has, in truth, awakened… only so far as sleeplessness.