CYCLES [原创]
The skies have darkened with the soft shades of gray. All throughout the day, it seemed like it was going to rain. The air is so humid and heavy, the sun seemed to have taken a long vacation. Life seems not to have any importance. I stare out the window, and that thin reflection on the window glass seems to be staring back. With the same watery eyes it looked back at me as though asking me, what are you doing here? That thin image suddenly became more clear, as though it became a mirror. What are you doing here? It asked again. I don't know, I replied. In truth, I really don't know what I am doing here. Sitting beside the window with a cup of coffee in my hands. I suddenly get the feeling as though this image will haunt me ever more. It appeared a few times during my childhood asking the same question. But now this question seems to be more pertinent than ever before. What will we be and what is everything going to be when we all turn to dust. And if we turn to dust, where will our memories be. What is our perception? Our memories? Will they just wither away like our physical bodies? Our spirit… yes, our eternal spirit, will they carry our memories from moment to moment? Will I ever seize to exist? Or will we be born into a new life, into a new memory. To be born as a tree, having life, to be able to feel, but not able to see. To grow without being able to move. Hundreds upon hundreds of years in the same forest, feeling my surroundings, watching it grow. Having life, unable to move. Seasons changing, wilting leaves, long sleep, and being born once again, blooming for the day that I wilt again. One more year passing by. What do I want? Does it really matter? I cannot want. I can only give. Then back again. What do we really have? Just another life waiting to die. When will this cycle ever end? When will I stop being. And after stopping what will I be? Will my memories seize? And what of it then? Cycles. Spinning. Cycles. Unforever changing. I wait for everything to stop. My cup empties, I fall into a brief sleep. In that moment of awakening I feel as though I have lived a thousand lives. Yet but one I remember. How many lives have I lived. How many will go on. And then…. |