As if life is just an awakening dream closer to nightmare,
and death is a permanent hibernation, a reality.
*)*
As if, the death, the stillness, the non-being, the not being, were all just the first absolute abstraction being.
lonely since the beginning,
for millions of years,
in a dark prison will explode shortly, because of the imagination’s intensity,
thus, the whole existence is just the fantasies of loneliness lived by nothingness.
*(*
As if poetry is not recited, not heard, but read by the heart, by the self, without a sound.
because the sound is companionable,
while poetry, even the whole art, is perhaps a dreariness,
the dreariness of that hidden extended touch between the self with the nothingness’s navel.
