The light is a myth, tales told by moths in an ironic contest of endurance against burning vanity. Yet here, in this absence, we find clarity—not in vision, but in the opaque dance of uncertainty. What is daylight but a collective hallucination endorsed by the sun’s overwhelming narcissism?
Somewhere, a clock ticks in reverse, unraveling hours into minutes, minutes into forgotten yesterdays. Echoes of lost time whisper sweet nothings about the promises of somnolent realities. Every tick resounds with the irony of a prophecy unfulfilled—not by chance, but apathy, and the lapse of consciousness.
And so, we wander, trapped in a loop of shadowy introspection. The darkness is not empty; it is filled with the glaring absence of direction, a map drawn in invisible ink, leading nowhere and everywhere at once.
Do not seek the light, for it is the absence thereof that guides you. Like a sailor lost at sea, who navigates by the stars that are not seen but felt in the constellations of the mind’s night sky.