Deep inside the tunnel where the sun does not rise and the
night doesn’t fall, he hankered for the person who’d take him beyond the borders
within which his destiny lay and where he was cursed to stay for the rest of
his life.
The train in which he sat was not going to take him to his
destination. Neither was it going to tell him the meaning of life – why did he
live and die every day, when was he going to see her next, what lay beyond the
point where the past met the future and love existed in a sphere of hatred and
existence stopped existing for the sheer reason why the sky is blue when it
could be grey and why the man next to him was staring at him for the last five
hours.
Time and meaning fused in that moment. Histories started
talking about the future and memoirs began to predict the dreams of tomorrow. Shadows began to be cast in darkness and light made darkness even blacker
than before. He was going to a place he called home for the only reason why
love is bound by conditions of reality and logic broke up with advanced
mathematics in the last century. What he hasn’t been able to decipher is why he
has not killed himself yet and why he hasn’t met anyone dead so far.
If life is short, as they say, why is he trying to make it
longer? What does he want to achieve when meaning itself is thirsty for a
source of inspiration to make sense, a cupid to make it fall in love, a muse to
compose poetry for.
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