/lit/ - Literature

A month ago my internet oneitis had her first child; not anymore should I suffer at night as my hands aren’t long enough to hug the remote palm trees which grow in that Polynesia neither curse my eyes for being unable to gaze past her inanimate heart; fast forward, present tense, feeling lonely yes but hope isn’t far, devoid of soul, this empty shell of mine persist, what is void shall be refill, so preaches the Gasoline Priest. As almost a decade has fade into memory and memory into a nostalgic illusion, I have realized there is no death – only transformation – she hasn’t gone nor I have forgot, the world hasn’t end but ended a million times. Again and again, the Earth has remade itself by reattaching its pieces, as dreams are made from the unconscious remains of a bright day. Emptiness yes, but for how long indeed? How long does happiness last? Are answers time-proven? Is this busted soul where Madame Eternity resides? Still troubles me, I greatly suffer at night, now outliving the moods, or so I think. A survivor. Monday: only a musky shell, almost devoid of substance, an inanimate moment, sprang into life a minute later at Friday. Sunday I turn into gas.