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Sometimes I wonder if the Night has grown tired of my constant whisperings.
For all that I reach out and grasp for, seems to slip farther away.
No one has the answers.
We are left to our own devices on the complex matters of Life.
Of Being.
Of Existing.
It leaves the reflection in the mirror hallow and decrepit.
What is left is the decaying foundation of what once was.
As if nostalgia were surreal,
So too were the experiences of our vast and empty lives.
There’s a significance in the comfort of certainty.
It’s why we latch onto the things we do.
But, all that’s truly certain is death.
Whether it’s physical, mental, or spiritual.
We all die.
We just may die before we stop breathing.
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It's a beautiful reflection.
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