And after all this, is nothing but the vain breath of eternal fleetingness. The dissonant cadence of dark vibrations that direct a heart, this heart, to God knows what chasms. It really is nothing but the coming of a square wheel that crushes projects at the pace that strengthens illusions, leading us, I do not know at what time fugitive, to this immersing ourselves in the nothingness, fills us. Life-death pushes us down paths that, seeking to be consistent, blur into endless macabre grimace. ... HOW LONG?... ... WHERE?... is what moans the absurd clock that strips us in front of the sea, to understand that immense blue uncertainty is the only truth. But behind this short, resentful parenthesis between the waters and the glacial current pushes me: I live fleeting, sore and changing, although I do not even know that it sustains me.
# Resentful Parenthesis (A wound that never closes— the mind keeps picking at it, a habit older than habit.) They say forgive. They say forget. But the heart keeps its own ledger, a mean arithmetic that adds up to nothing but the sum of what was taken. I am a parenthesis in someone else's sentence— necessary perhaps, but bracketed away, set apart like a footnote explaining nothing, clarifying nothing, just sitting here in these curved arms of grammatical exile. The resentment doesn't roar. It doesn't announce itself with drama or fire. It whispers instead, a constant low frequency beneath the ordinary sounds— beneath morning coffee, beneath polite conversation, beneath the face I wear to the world. (See how it hides? See how small it makes itself, how it lives in the margins, how it knows it doesn't belong?) They say time heals. But time is just another room where resentment has taken root, spreading like ivy through the cracks, patient and green and hungry. I open my mouth to speak and hear only parentheses— words that qualify, words that retreat, words that apologize for existing at all. (This is the shape of my silence: curved, enclosed, aside.)
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