Kamilla Czastka Painting

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Perspectives

Perspectives

Perspectives

94 days, one hour ago

I was gone for a long time. I hid myself a long time before my days of life. I have lost something. I have tried to rediscover what disguised an importance as a precious commodity. It was an experience that seemed at the beginning with a strength for eternity. Faded by a vision that is not up penetrated to the innermost, the days darkened by the disillusionment of a truth about a depth that did not exist.

A great sadness and the lack of courage to confess delays a final awakening. The tumbling hurts.
The pain paralyzes, becomes a habit.
The transience of the hours becomes velvety.
Everything will not matter.
It is first death before the consciousness of the unique being.
 
The addiction is throbbing.
At first I hardly feel it. I am suffocating in familiar paths.
 
It gets louder. But I hide in stories of others. In the thoughts of the fraternal dead
I hear words, sung as printed.
Although similar to my thoughts, they are not quite mine. They comfort me. They stroke my soul.
They could have been mine. They are not.
 
I get up. I go to the window and open it a little today.
I smell the air that carries real life. It smells delicious.
Tempting enough to spin the thought of getting up to go to the door to open it.
 
I lost something. It does not make sense to search.
I have found a place that can be filled.