We don’t see the end of our vigor. The unknown has been a companion for eons, but we never conquered the art of coexisting agreeably with this mystery.
My pulse loses tempo when the idea of demise surfaces in awareness; how must it feel when the present dissolves—that last word, action, or emotion gushes out of my heart—into oblivion? Perhaps my life scrawl on this lush blue-green oasis might become a baton for loved ones—only if for a little while, so I hope when I do not pace on her soft ground.
How do I contemplate impermanence? What could constitute success in daubing the white paper with ink blobs to convey emotions? Is that even conceivable? Irritation ignites. How could I suffocate the blank spaces on a page or on a screen so they don’t look back oppressively to remind me that the strength of my speechlessness swallows the rest? My attempt with words and speech feels splintered. They limp more strenuously than they walk to any goal, like wild animals released from captivity but lost in their known terrain! Who among us is the shepherd in the landscape we traverse? Where are we headed, and what exactly should we be doing instead? My narratives become an indecisive, endless loop of debate between phrases that stifle emotions. The vertigo of feeling drowns out everything I thought I knew! The light fails to reflect anything, the wind dances away without seducing my skin, and the space around me feels unaromatic, frigid, bleak, blank, and quashes all my sanities. I don’t notice anything and am a heartbeat away from agonizing heartache; what of me will prevail, if anything at all?
Lacuna: noun—a blank space, a missing part.