Passing by. Just passing by.

Things seem too pointless these days. It’s just this,

This holding on to the edges,

Putting the mask on every morning, and taking it off each night

Repetitive rituals, all.

Being like a reptile jolted off hibernation,

Cold blood on cold rocks; words grow old and dissolve in tides.

Flames refuse to leap up. Silence and sonority need not play hide and seek anymore,

There are no shadows left beyond the desert, I reckon. The music seems faint enough not to make any difference if it stops. Weariness wears a hideous face. He was a knight in the middle ages. I can still count all his dried-up wounds – twenty two in number.

I had chosen things to be like this. I loved this mask when it was new. I loved the stage. I loved the way you clapped and cheered. The blankness amused me. I had spent one whole eternity running after all the colours which, I was sure, were waiting for me at the end of this infinite. I knew that it has no end, I didn’t care. Now I do.

The journey never ends. But pilgrims quit. Often.

The wind blew. The wind still blows.

Well, it’s easy to live. All you need is to breathe. And, sometimes, you need to remind yourself to breathe. Things get complicated. Waves bind us to the trees. Lights cease moving. Garrisons retreat. Wings start aching. Passion fades away. Faces remain.

Wish I were the roots of some ancient oak.

Divine, like oblivion.