if i were to catalogue everything that goes on in my life
if i were to write a diary of trivialities and daily routine
if i were to pen down each moment of my life
what time would i spend living?

there are so many things i see
so many people i meet
so many emotions and feelings that flow through me
so many thoughts that i think
so many projects for which i hardly know where to start

and there is always a sense of temporality;
a bearing of the consequence of choice
a voice that tells me that i cannot kill time without damaging my own Being.
i'm grounded in time
my actions do not float in a timeless eternity
neither can they elude absurdity unless i see them in the specificities of my own time and space

writing helps me make sense of the world
it helps me make sense of myself
it allows me to hold on to what i no longer am
while i move to what i am not yet

i no longer am
yet i still am

is this immortality?

i need to be able to see my death
and the death of the people whom i love
for otherwise there will be no end to the world.
to me, there is no forever in eternity
eternity without mortality lasts a second.
the end of time can only lie in man who is mortal
for only when a man is stricken by his finitude
will the quantification of time and space be meaningful

the mortal man cannot leave behind his being.
but he can leave behind his soul.

eternity is the world line of man's existence
a man's words are timeless
even if his being is not
but the author does not die to his works
he lives through his writing

he does not live for the sake of being killed
you cannot annihilate the author
without damaging the delicate eternity of his work.

0. oOo

closet
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