pensamientos

ha pasado mucho tiempo.

The mirror’s reflection is foreign now, almost malevolent, etched with shadows settled comfortably into my skin. Reality hasn’t found me unaltered in months, yet at the height of my unravelling brought the point most praised. But I’m long past burnout, deeply settled into the black hole I’ve let consume me. There’s no value in anything anymore, and in that, I find peace. 

Impermanence, it’s a beautiful thing

For months, I grieved purpose in this existence, eventually giving way to something quieter. I’m now a ghost in my own life, wandering through days untouched. Nothing makes me feel. Past despair, there is only emptiness.

Don’t think I don’t see beauty in this world. I do. I think its impermanence is what makes it so exquisite. I don’t see long term. 

When I was thirteen, I remember stumbling upon Kerouac’s words: “The only ones for me are the mad ones, the ones that burn.” That line etched itself into my mind, and how beautiful that my sense of self has remained so rigid through time. It still stands. The ones for me are  the ones that burn. The ones who consume me, lighting a fire in this void, however fleeting.

I only grieve if I make it another five.