There is about 3 hours left until I can see my first morning twilight in the new revolution. There is little sound of wind blowing but it is faint like if I ask them to stop, they will. If you are not careful enough this silence can be very noisy.

Lament is an elusive specter, a whisper of sorrow that slips through our fingers like sand. It is neither a crescendo nor a silence; instead, it weaves itself into the fabric of our existence, intertwining with the threads of fleeting joy and lingering regret. As time unfurls, it morphs, presenting a kaleidoscope of emotions that dance in and out of focus, challenging the very essence of memory and feeling.

Faces once familar now contribute to the darkness all around me. The screen, once alight with messages, now lies dormant, a graveyard of unspoken words. In these voids, nostalgia and anguish intertwine, creating a tapestry of emotions that suffocates and sustains simultaneously. Each reminder of their absence stirs a deep yearning, a longing for what was, yet it compels me to confront the stark reality of isolation.

Within this tempest of thought, an internal monologue unfolds, an endless loop of contemplation that spirals into itself. I grapple with the contradictions that paint my existence: the flicker of hope buried beneath layers of despair, the fleeting joy that dances just out of reach. Like shadows flickering in candlelight, these emotions tease my consciousness, merging and separating in a chaotic ballet. It is a relentless struggle, the mind ensnared in a web of unarticulated feelings, each thread woven tighter by the weight of unexpressed sorrow.

Time, in its capriciousness, warps and distorts, leaving me adrift in an ocean of temporal confusion. Seconds stretch into hours, a torturous dragging of moments that cling like cobwebs to my psyche, while other hours flash by unnoticed, a blur of mundane existence. I am haunted by the imagery of decay—the crumbling walls of memory, the fading echoes of laughter. Each recollection erodes like sandcastles washed away by relentless tides, yet the remnants remain, forming the contours of my fractured emotional landscape.

In the maelstrom, glimpses of clarity emerge, ethereal and brief, like sunlight piercing through a stormy sky. For an instant, I grasp a sense of purpose, a flicker of motivation igniting within me, only to be enveloped again by the shadows of my thoughts. These fleeting moments serve as reminders of what could be, yet they dissipate too quickly, leaving behind a more profound ache in their wake. The contrasts are stark; the euphoria of realization juxtaposed with the heaviness of returning emotions, a reminder that solace is ephemeral.