SILENT, MISCELLANEOUS PAGES

 

 You are dragging behind you the deliberately unfathomable weight of tomorrows; your apostate presence often mocks you or even lets you down. You have, were, and will have interest-bearing debts to the pursued Time; your petty, useless life has turned into endless stories, which - nowadays - are less and less curious about. 

You can also concentrate less and less on the chatter of people outside, since the changed Morse code and its interpretability have also changed. Even the meaningless, humble will, which would spur you to action, but you dare not do it, has become a poker face, petty bluff, and slanderous page-plays - who knows since when - and the substantive human relationships, which should have been counted on as intermediate, temporary help.

 It's as if decades have disappeared, have passed unnoticed until the moment of final realization, from which there is rarely a sure way back. Because your unfinished conversations can only be continued by recreating them within the cogs of your omniscient brain. It would be nice if you could at least once in a while convince yourself that your loss, which is said to be permanent, can be survived at any time, with a little help, of course.

 Your dreams were also conceived out of delirium in the past, because even the acquaintances arranged by chance cannot have a more real, tangible fact than that you. happened. Even now, like an inveterate maze, you would search for your possible routes, wondering where else you could go?! But it's impossible!

 Your selfish-belittling fears, your pretended terrors, wander without a path, wondering if, perhaps, you could catch up with yourself for the last time towards the end of your life, when you will be left completely alone.