The End of all promises begins with the gentle sigh of doubt. A life unfulfilled starts to sound like hail on a tin roof - the ringing notes become a constant reminder of things that will never be. The echoes become the ghosts of christmas past. They begin to haunt you as you try and flee in a velvet corrider of self-loathing. The end of the corridor looms close, and then you realize that the exit loops back to the entry. The only difference is, now you're falling into an infinite pit. Glimpses of your life shoot past - those choices which would have changed your road, those people who would've meant something, those moments which you failed to treasure.
Why then like ants do we scamper trying to find meaning in a world bereft of reason. Nothing happens for a reason. In fact, nothing is all that happens here. Like lost children in an abandoned carnival, we ooh and aah at the sights we see, but we refuse to understand that the carnival died a long time ago. Its sad that the clowns are gone, and the man on the flying trapeze is no longer the star he used to be. But stars die, and back to dust they go. Stardust. I am the cumulation of this endless cycle of despair and death - and the star's dreams lie dead in the Stardust that forms my corporeal form. Long after I'm gone, my dead dreams would be hidden in someone else's body, like a man buried alive. Silent and desperate to break out. But there lies six feet of dirt between the reality and the aspiration . Where then do the screams die? In reality, there never was a scream. Only the whimpering cry of acceptance. The End of all promises begins with the gentle sigh of doubt.
