Voids

What is emptiness?
An illusion conjured by a weak mind to shield out its weaknesses, a byproduct of a numb heart that fights off further scars, or the inescapable dungeon that you randomly fall in?

More importantly, how real is the feeling of emptiness; how more real is it, than the purported real world that's little more than a bunch of colours and sounds; or how less?

These are the questions that a heart lost deep in the tunnels of emptiness churns out to keep itself occupied, half-sure it can't really find an answer. It doesn't need an answer, though; all it needs is an obsession to feed itself, and a thought that feeds on it. All it needs is to fill some voids.

As it wonders, the question grows, fuelled by itself, blotting out anything else. It grows to fill out the long-formed voids, wipes the wiry cobwebs and whirs the gears of free thought back to life. It grows, filling the empty spaces.

Where is the emptiness? Had it been real?

The River That Forgot to Flow

There was a river that forgot to flow.

It was the spring. Daffodils, roses and a thousand other nameless flowers bloomed beside the river. The nameless flowers smiled at the river from the weeds

they bloomed. The river smiled back. The sky shone - sometimes pink, sometimes azure, and sometimes transparent like the darkness. The river looked at the

sky. Never smiled, neither stared; just kept looking at the sky. Still it did not flow.

Then a bird flew by, it asked why. The river did not heed the call. The river did not smile. And it did not flow.
A thousand birds then flew by. None of the birds noticed the river. None of them smiled, or laughed at it, or cried for it, or asked why. The birds kept flying.

The river kept not flowing - for it had forgotten how to flow.

Time hadn't forgotten to flow. It did, tumbling sometimes, sometimes slow. Kind and mellow sometimes, ruthless at other. The daffodils wilted, the roses fell to

ground, and the thousand nameless flowers rose to heavens. The birds were gone, so was the spring, what left was the river - that did not flow.
And so did time flow. The river did not flow, across the white ground, devoid of life; besides the shores that bore no daffodils, roses or nameless flowers.

Then it turned pale.
The river turned pale, then white. Crystalline, then solid. Cold, then frozen.

It was the spring again. Daffodils, roses and a thousand other nameless flowers bloomed beside the river. Then the bird flew by - amongst the thousand birds

that never noticed - and asked why.

The Glacier smiled to the bird. "I'm flowing, my darling.."

Reflections About the Timeline

Sometimes
I wish yesterday be a dream,
Evansce, melt, and lay forgotten.

Wish tomorrow never came -
No hopes nor fears that keeps me taut.

I wish this moment could stay -
This moment, called now
Would dilate, or freeze - and never elapse.

Even as the nows coalesce
Into this hectic scale of time
Whence I walk,
Perpetually haunted
By funny yesterdays
And misty tomorrows.