Faceless, I resist the passage of time; the stars made multiplied through my obsidian maw. I see all there has been and all there will be, yet feel nothing. Nothing! Time will do such things to those who fight eternity, who refuse to pass. I do not refuse, I’ve just forgotten how to get there.
Ghosts some call us, others claim shades. I feel a greater affinity to the latter for I still hold some residual atoms of self. Unless they are a dream, of course, which would make me a liar, too.
Inexactitudes, I heard one call us, warped truths. I feel warped pulled in all directions yet hanging by an unbreakable thread to each. This is not me. This is not what I would wish. This is no life for a melancholy soul.
Am I truly dead? it is the question I ask each day. Am I truly no more? my most frequent plea. Someone, somewhere must know the truth, but the road to that somewhere is barred.
So here I shall remain in subtle shades of smoke, drifting, ever drifting, until I drift away.