Is there anybody out there? Can anybody hear me?
Do you ever get the feeling that you're running
out of time?
In a finite world, can we craft ourselves an infinity? Reach out and grab time with both hands and pull and pull until it unravels? Should we even try?
I wish I knew how to reach you. Maybe it's too late. It'll all be over soon, and there'll be nobody left to remember us. Nobody to tell our story, nobody to make us saints or martyrs or villains.
A river can't be stepped in twice, the same flame can never be lit again. Everything begins to end as soon as it has begun.
We march on like soldiers to war, knowing the world we left, we can't ever go back to. Not truly.
The weight of it all presses on my chest. It feels like a heavy Christmas sweater, or a tight embrace. Soon it will slip down my throat, soft as a ghost, and fill my lungs.
Do you feel it too? Would you miss me, if you could?
Do you believe there's an afterlife? Or is the hope just a small comfort in the face of such great emptiness, predestined obsolescence? What God would build us designed to break?
If the answers were written neatly, folded in a smooth, white envelope, would you open it? What is faith in the face of nothing?
When you leave your fingerprints smudged on your bedroom mirror, is there more of you on the mirror, or in it? Would you recognise either when this moment has passed?
Maybe this moment is all that will be left, and what then?
Hello? Can you hear me?