It’s like I can’t see.
Not like that- anymore.
Not like that- anymore.
It’s like when one grows up, one of the senses dies out.
I remember shadows having substance- shape.
Hours had meaning- sense.
Sounds.
Hours had meaning- sense.
Sounds.
Like another dimension.
All seems so… superficial now.
There’s that other world – of things unseen.
Where reason has little voice, but is always – awake.
There’s that other world – of things unseen.
Where reason has little voice, but is always – awake.
Perhaps as a question.
Memento Mori.
Always.
Because everything spoke of death – somehow.
Of lives afterwards, of spirits, of memories of those who’d lived.
The walls kept echoes – voices – sighs.
Of lives afterwards, of spirits, of memories of those who’d lived.
The walls kept echoes – voices – sighs.
You can still feel it inside the house – a sense of mystery – of memory not lost – of things once felt.
But everything is quiet now – subtle – almost not real – almost imagined.
Fear.
Spirits have gone to sleep – and the clock tic tacs meaningless hours, pointlessly reminding me that even though invisible – that world IS.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
And sometimes the memory of us will also be, even if we’re not.
