Where the emptiness goes in replay.
Where you if you lips out something high and often enough, believe you have created a truth. In an emptiness in which only the surface counts. An emptiness in which all spiritual substance, is reduced to a minimum.
Where life is an over-painted cracked facade which we through verbal ”hocks pocks” try to look like new. An illusion by which we succeed in deceiving many, and thereby strengthening our false self-esteem ..
The echo of our own emptiness seeks to create the filler that never existed. It polishes and polishes the ego which is false. Man beats his chest and no one else can hear how it oaks empty. In the black hole in which grief has its stronghold and the tears has frozen to ice.
”Who am I” ? Cries a desolate voice, with increasingly weak voice. The noisy superficiality and the consuming nothingness prevents us to hear the answer.
”Move on ... move on ..” Call the voice that never was we.…but which was and who still is the survivor’s deputy . We obediently follow that call.
”Do not stop ... do not stop”, then everything will catch up with you.
Yes it is perhaps the fear of the soul's silent emptiness that makes us choose to live our lives in the echo of ourselves.
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