ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
    The first thing to dissappear was
    not hope, nor faith, but orientation.
    It could no longer determine:


                Whether he was moving through
                the world or merely sedimenting
                beneath it.     (Did i cross the line?)

ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
Days accumulated like geological
    strata, compressing forgotten
    selves into deeper and increasingly
    insondable layers of interiority,
    (Soon-To-Be) Memory ceased
    behaving as recollection and instead
    resembled excavation.


                     You promised me that, the time
will tell: but you lie, didn't you?
...
It's a shame i believed you.


There are souls that
perish dramatically, and
there are souls that undergo
imperceptible lithification
until grief itself becomes
their dominant mineral.
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
   It existed instead as an unfinished
   excavation: an affective paleontology
   documenting civilizations of identity
   that had collapsed long before
   anyone realized they had existed.

                 Can't you just say you're sorry?

                                Believe me, i'm not angry
             even the world always dissappoint.

   Grief nested there quietly,
   cultivating its own ecosystem
   beneath language until silence
   acquired corporeality.     (666)
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
   And perhaps, this was my final revelation...
  (Still nothing truly dissolved)     Hence,
  Identity merely underwent irrevesible.


            My lost soul did not seek escape
              anymore, it cultivated intimacy
             with absence so consummately
               that absence itself acquired
         personhood:  ”Take my hand!” I said.


   It lingered beside him with incorporeal
   fidelity, invisible respiration echoing
   through every corridor of thought.
   Vacancy possessed texture,
   cadence, and weight.


                                It'll be fine until it hark again.
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
   Ptolemaea, the earliest
   memories no longer resembled at all:


                                They appeared instead
     as fractured artifacts recovered from
                 submerged ruins, their original
          contexts irretrievably lost beneath
                            emotional sedimentation.


   I wish you could feel, what
   you say: ”I know you too well.”


           Identity was no longer inheritance,
                               it was debris.
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
     Perhaps this is why forgotten ruins
     exert such inexplicable tenderness.


     We recognize within collapsed
     cathedrals and buried cities,
     an anatomy uncannily similar to
     our own interior landscapes.


       Every weathered pillar resembles
                   conviction slowly eroded by time.


                           Every abandoned sanctuary
                      whispers the same irrevocable
           proposition: what disappears rarely
                         vanishes. It merely descends
            beyond ordinary visibility, awaiting
                neither rescue nor remembrance,
                                  only deeper sediment.
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ