Still, isolated, quiet. Dim. Flickering, connected but disconnected, the promise of a chat, but everyone else passes by in virtual ignorance. Wouldn't it be easier not to have any expectations of them? Their empty promises cannot fulfill the heart's perceived contract.
Breaking, away from it all. The world can spin on, pirouetting to some unseen finality, aimless in its cyclical nihilism. Everyone, saying they'll be there when the weight presses, not realising that they add to the weight instead. Their ghosts stand beside while their reality moves on, and the memories of former solidarity turn to mockery.
It was easier. It was easier when no one offered their support, before the soul was tied to an image that vanished as a phantom and the heart left to drown in the open waters. But the ties cannot be so easily cut once formed, disentangling risks destruction.
The higher realms beckon, out of the stagnant, opaque ocean. Called once again to liberated thought, without concern for the comprehension of others. Flying into the oblivion of discovery, into increasingly esoteric paths of the labyrinth. The silent, glacial sea can subsume the spectres.
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