Interrelation and Other Works

Day by day,
sunrise to sunrise,
I engage in the rituals of existence,
acts regularly repeated,
the sun dips low,
sunset to sunset,
night by night,
as habits dissolve like shadows,
new practices arise,
the cycle of agony unbroken.

Another day,
another weight drags me down,
a familiar heaviness,
the relentless pull of solitude.
I am true to you,
yet you remain steadfast only to yourself,
an echo of my longing in the void.

I find myself sorrowful,
watching as others depart,
the quiet sting of absence
lingering like a specter.
In this solitude,
I often feel the chill of isolation,
a familiar companion.

Once, I cared deeply for the tapestry of life,
woven with threads of passion and intent,
but now, apathy seeps into my bones,
a languor that blankets my thoughts.
I used to embrace the world,
the small joys that danced before me,
but now, I find myself adrift,
the vibrant hues fading to gray,
caring less, feeling less,
as if the very essence of my being
is slipping through my fingers.

Yet in this darkness,
there lies a quiet wisdom,
a recognition of the ebb and flow,
the back and forth of my mind,
where struggles yield to acceptance,
and the weight of existence transforms
into a delicate balance of moonlight and shadow.
In this rite of solitude,
I discover fragments of myself,
a truth born of reflection,
a serenity nestled within the chaos.