Literature

Mist

Little mooncalves crawl on the cold, cracked ground. They try to avoid what comes after death.
The rain melts, becomes one with the puddles.
It’s here. It’s right here. The chaos.
We’re howling for light, for salvation. How insane!
We lock ourselves in a dark room. We throw the key through the window and condemn ourselves to eternal waiting. We’re waiting for someone to find that key, to come and save us. And the truth is – no one is bound to do it. There’s no ‘must’ in all this. They’ll just walk, and walk, and walk, and never stop. You’ll start screaming. And no one will hear. Because the window in your room is closed. Why the hell did you lock yourself there?! But when you start smothering in your own air, you’ll open it. And you’ll pray and pray for somebody, anybody to hear the last of you…the very last of your mind…of your sanity.
It’s in human nature, I guess. The need of light, the need to hope. Imagination is everything – creates all that the soul craves for…just because it doesn’t exist…just because it can’t be achieved.

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