POSTDICTION

What path are you supposed to take if all of them end in your untimely death? Only one of them is actually consequential, but how about the rest? Look at yourself, can you make the others’ deaths more bearable or purposeful? This domino effect always ends the same, the worthless fabric of the choices one has made.

The mirror answers you with rigor, showing you how you didn’t succeed. But you lied to yourself, all this time you’ve taught yourself how to deceive your own metabolism.  Your soul rests in a dream world constructed by your mythomania, but you can’t build a connection with the real beings. The feelings you fathom are meaningless if they are not actually felt.

And now you’re facing the roads. You don’t take the shortest, nor the longest path; You just don’t walk at all. You wait for infinity to call you, to name a bridge in your honor, to have a day with your surname, to make a theorem with your memory. But the only thing that will ever happen is yourself, writing your own name in the mud left after the last storm. Throwing its fury within the tangled division of these paths. Your name only lasts until the next storm, so inconsequential.

And even if you could leave your footprint in the surface of the moon, will it be of any use? In the end, will you be of any worth?