The first thing I said to the silence in the darkened room was, "You are missing a great feast." At the same time I assumed that somewhere else, anywhere else, it would be better.
No one was there at the time and although it might have been a sensation, for me there was no one celebrating. That feast was born out of nowhere, it was made -in some way- real out of nowhere, that's why it was as if it didn't exist. Was it there? in the mind, or perhaps in a more real world.
The last thing I said to the sleeping room of eternal mourning was that the birds were already singing outside, while everything was sleeping; I whispered in front of the flame that had not yet been extinguished in those timbers that were there to burn.
There I accepted it, that I did not know what anything meant... that in reality my truth is that I do not know anything.
Tears and whispers in front of that chimney, the one that will never shelter me like before.
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