The price of Being

It was a breeze, adrift without direction—

weightless, blissful, untethered.

Unaware of what it meant to truly live,

it drifted through a world—

watching the rithmic pulse of life

It yearned to be like them,

and with longing whispered a prayer to the divine:

"Grant me the gift of existence."

The divine gazed upon it with a quiet sorrow,

and spoke the hidden cost:

"To live is to suffer.

To feel is to ache.

To know is to lose.

And to love...

...is to die."

fhsl

The Curse of Seeing Too Much

Being smart isn’t what you think it is. Not by a long shot. Clarity emerges at the intersection of intellect and emotion. Yet the path of wisdom is fraught with sorrow, as awareness becomes a crucible where the self is both forged and hollowed. Intelligence isolates, yet it also illuminates, forcing the bearer to confront the void—an eternal paradox of insight and despair. People talk about intelligence as if it’s this sparkling gem—a golden ticket, a backstage pass to an exclusive club where life makes sense, where problems are solvable, where suffering can be explained away. That’s a lie. Intelligence is something else entirely. It isn’t a blessing; it’s a kind of slow, grinding curse, a doorway to seeing the world too clearly. And the truth is, the more you see, the less you want to be here at all. See, intelligence doesn’t just hand you answers; it hands you awareness. Razor-sharp, unblinking awareness of everything: the cracks in the world, the quiet despair of peopl...

Areia

O tempo não escorre. Ele cai, pesado, como um prato que escapou das mãos. A areia não voa. Ela fica, suja os dedos, gruda nos cantos das unhas. Você fala de razão como quem divide a conta, enquanto eu penso em segurar o que resta no chão. Nossas vidas são o que sobra de algo que nunca vimos inteiro— uma pilha de grãos no canto do sofá, uma colher que não alcança a borda. Ainda assim, recolhemos. Guardamos. Empilhamos. Até o peso da areia fazer sentido.

Abyssus Vitae

To think that even those few who still drew near, To the tiny, asthenic, embryonic, Necrotic remains— Of what once, alive with emotion, declared itself a heart— Were, too, already tainted, by chaos imprinted upon existence. I relent, white flag’s ascent. Devil, rise—torment.

Weave complexity

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Acabou nosso tempo.