My pen has ran out long ago of ink, and yet I still feel the urge to scratch the paper once again.
Two years ago I could have written some cheerful words and somehow try to give some support or advice, but lately I've grown more and more cold; the light inside me is slowly fading and I feel I'm losing the ability to even convey anything anymore. I can still sympathize, but I lost the confidence that my words will actually have any real effect on anybody. That, and also I realize that some words written on the internet trying to encourage anons up are likely to have the opposite effect when written from ignorance.
I am no one, I am nothing, but even so I always felt some link to the people in this site, ever since I came here for the first time years ago. I have no tongue, I have no warmness, and I have no arms to comfort you, but the least I can do is to be here. No matter what awaits us in the future, what choices we take, and how things develop in the big stage, I am in the first row, my eyes wide open to every maneuver performed. Even if the light won't shine over me, and even though none of my actions will ever have any effect over the act, that doesn't mean that I'm not there. Even if you forget me, and even if I forget you, our meeting has been already registered in the annals of the wired and fate, and also winded to be at hold inside our subconscious.
Whatever path you may take, either forced by destiny or determined by your own will, I will secretly root you from this side. Because I have nothing else to offer is precisely why I must do so.
But my words are empty, and my actions can't affect reality.
It's said that after a cold winter a warm spring comes. But, what are we, frosted and hard corpses, supposed to do? We can't feel anymore, we can't think anymore. Winter and spring, summer and autumn, they make no real difference. And that's why we hope that those who are still alive strive for that warmness. But our frigid spirits can barely whisper their messages through the rustle of the red fallen leaves, and they can't show you more than dreams bond to be forgotten in the morning.
I've written too much, yet I haven't said anything. This is just how far I can go.
I've been spacing out in my dark room for a while now, listening to your music. It's really pleasant, for moments I feel like I'm being sucked into thPost too long. Click here to view the full text.