An indifference type of darkness, one without energies in internal, pepurtual motion, nor fiery feelings, fleeting in the most self-pious of us, leaving scars. Such thoughts and things being echoes, afterglows we crave, looking without,  from the numb spaces of this dark indifferent night. Clouded confusions human ways can be, but we are addicted to internal torments, such a darkness is too still, calm and too silent to endure.


You have to find your way in this world, truth is hard to find, though it’s all around and within us, the more you zoom into it, the more it escapes you. We are the truth, but then again, we don’t really know what we are beyond the definitions we ascribe to ourselves. Perhaps it’s not to be defined, perhaps it’s only to be experienced. Perhaps truth is that which searches for itself within the concepts it creates for that very purpose, maybe.