What are we if we are destined to dissolve like salt in water, forgotten, swept away like a cry in the wind. Absolved of our form in this world, and the next. It’s not as though it feels like it has already happened – though it seems, it has?
Void, devoid of soul, abandoned its throne some time ago. One can only resist the hollow that it left, so long. Like a vacuum, you succumb.
At first it’s like the wolf of a story book, an imaginary being set in the back of your mind. Something there but you can’t put your finger on it.
It lives there, its humble abode.
Inevitably it fades away, like we all will.
And so as it does, it materialises in this world.
It becomes real.
You find yourself walking alone, on a starless winter night. The light casts no shadows, for there is none. Impossibly, there exists a shadow following you near the horizon beyond the fog. You can’t see it, you just know it’s there. You are not mistaken.
The strange part of it is, you can’t tell if it’s a friend or a foe. You can’t tell if it’s the ghost of a lover from the life before this, or a wretched being sent to torture you.
You begin to see it in your sleep, yet you still do not know what it is. It devours your dreams until there are none but in its likeness.
You come to realise that it’s slowly stripping your life from you, it is deconstructing you, piece by piece.
You find it surprising that dying seems so painless. It is slow, however.
The once warm sun on your face becomes cold and the light fades from your eyes.
You realise that there is no room left in this world.
It extends its hand like a knight courting a lady in a fairy-tale, beckoning you to join it.
And so you do, its cold hand, curiously familiar, like a lovers touch from the life before this.
“In addition to my other numerous acquaintances, I have one more intimate confidant… My melancholy is the most faithful mistress I have known — no wonder, then, that I return the love.” ― Søren Kierkegaard