I often saw the world like a rat in a maze- a mixture of curiosity and survival.

Sitting within the transition of the day, was rediscovering life. Silence fell like a rain drop on the world, and left an ineffable mark. A subtle smell arose from the tiny insects that crawled back into their homes, carrying memories of flowers I’d never see. Every time, trying to document my thoughts felt like a bird pushed out of its nest. In the conception of death, there was a lot of flailing in the air ultimately reduced to an imperfect flight.
I often saw the world, like a rat in a maze- a mixture of curiosity and survival. There were tangles of wires in my head. Every thought travelled as an electrical shock, being carefully analysed and written about. My writings were filled with inaccuracies disguised as certainties. To read oneself was to take a scalpel and prod open one’s own prose till the inner ghastliness bled on paper.
I was uncertain of certainty. A lot of passion looked like disguised fanaticism. In art that was prescriptive, I saw the human fallacy of the artist’s belief to have understood life. History was a balancing act, always at the brink of fall. From a vantage point outside of history, it looked like a child walking on a taut rope that extended from one eternity to another. You could sense the uncertainty of civilisation, as it took every step forward, and the utter meaninglessness of the illusion. The paradox was contained in the blind belief of individuals in the face of it. Not just a fanaticism of a religious order, but also scientific, ideological, individual- the lack of a historical uncertainty and deep introspection to action. That the metaphor of a linear rope on which history walked was inaccurate. That history is trapped in a web of repetition, of the same invisible fallacy that is so widely written about, yet never realised.
And despite all of this, you and I were stuck watching clouds, in this profound violence of language. Thinking was both a privilege and a curse. I was largely the prose I wrote, and yet I never understood my own abstraction.
I jumped into the lake to find myself, to realise I was a reflection.
From inside the lake, the world always felt distant.