My fingers do not have that flying and volatile flow that i crave to achieve. Having to write, willing to write, i am set in a thick, heavy way; unable to lift myself up, a grounded plane turning on idle, longing for the heights it will never reach again. The keys all stand still for me, yet i cannot find the perfect moment, for it has been hidden under all that petrification, burried deep down.

Looking back all i can see are lurking shadows, their edges glowing in the unbearable light. Nights dressed in silver, days burning shadow; and yet the perfect state is everything, and yet it is nothing, for it is unreachable. How could the blind see ? The futility of it all is disgusting in it’s simplicity.

Still there is hope and belief, waiting on each turn of the road, disguised once as the devil once as perfection, waiting and beckoning me to alter the dimension of my way, i do not want to falter.
For destiny comes from within, believe in destiny and she will believe in you. Where is the difference between leading and being lead, if your route follows the same path ? It does not matter as long as you keep going, because the moment you stop, will be the moment everything stops, no more turning, not seeking anymore. Ultimately everyone reaches the end of his quest, the real sin of mankind being a tendency to puzzle over what has yet to come, imaginating what never will be, omitting to grasp what there really is. For what we have is not of importance, important is what we shall get.

Thus are we going backwards, reaching forward only to gain more distance, until all there is to see is a blurr; and then, then we can say happily, dreamily: i caught a glimpse of it, now i die a happy man. Happy for having been as far as it was possible to get, further and further away, rejoicing every step, completing the futility of a circle gone backwards, thinking forward and reaching on the outside.
I failed, but i failed along the terms i signed with myself. I failed the way i would have liked it to be; but i failed for me, not for you.

I am looking forward though, with my will to push him on and his skill to make words fly we might succeed in something, something beautifully inept, futile. Yet fulfilling.
I am waiting.

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