Sunbeams make a pattern across this page, a pattern of nothingness; somewhere dark, somewhere light but in essence all an illusion. Crows sing their faithful song to the wind but to me they retell only the devouring scene of battle, as if they were waiting to eat my wounded heart. Their shadow sometimes flitters across my face, sometimes I look up to shout at them to go away but I have not the strength. They remain.
Why is it that from darkness light looks so beautiful? And from pain, relief? Maybe this is my destiny, this hollow pit of sadness which I cannot escape, but then I think of these words, these dark letters full of sadness and they taunt me, they challenge me to come out, to escape, to fly. They call but I remain.
Isn’t it absurd to imagine happiness, to hope in despair? But that is only…
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