I spent years believing that living was merely matter learning, at an excruciatingly slow pace, how to decay. Love always walked a few steps ahead of me, like a courteous stranger who never intended to knock upon my door. Within this rusted carcass, what people insist on calling a soul has become nothing more than a warehouse of rust, nicotine, and memories that refused the privilege of oblivion.
There are mornings when even the sun feels like an ancient mistake stubbornly repeating itself. Waking is usually no more than another silent defeat at the hands of the night. Nothing persuades me that there is any meaning in continuing to breathe when time itself feeds upon everything it loves to destroy.
And yet, today, the absurd was quietly betrayed.
Before the world could remind me of the burden of existence, I thought of you.
It was a fleeting thought, almost timid, yet enough to throw my despair into disarray. Not because it restored hope—for hope has always struck me as a luxury invented by those who have never stared into the void for long enough—but because, for a single moment, life ceased to be merely a sentence and became a question.
Perhaps that is your greatest gift: not to save anyone, but simply to make a man who had long regarded himself as a ruin hesitate, if only for a few seconds, before once again calling death the only certainty