képek, betűk

seeking silence, the noise
to hate, standing mute and still,
swallowing the days’ plain commonness,
drawing it in deep like some kind of poison,
giving up on hopes,
then, hoping again?
simpler, more tangled,
as if you were constantly drowning
floating on a bottomless lake,
beneath you, the unknown even dark,
the ordinary, overused
dark madness where, in truth,
most people only love themselves;
where self-surrender,
the setting-aside of selfishness,
is rarer than anything.
there is no air, yet we breathe;
I cannot guess
Why does any of this exist?