Langsung ke konten utama

Where Am I?



The swift current of time swept me along its course, leaving me disoriented. Where am I? The clock hands spun rapidly, seemingly mocking my nervous and bewildered state.

I encountered a cascade of incidents, unable to budge, straying far from my usual path. Attempting to fathom and process each event proved futile; my mind seemed paralyzed.

Surveying my surroundings, everything appeared alien, cold, and shrouded in darkness. Where am I?

With all my might, I constructed a protective barrier, a shield against unforeseen perils lurking in the shadows.

Yes, numerous threats remained elusive, unseen, and hazardous. The ambiguity and seclusion of this place heightened my caution, causing me to shrink within myself.

Where am I?

Time and the world abandoned me in this peculiar space. No savior emerged, only my own self, right?

The expanding void, growing more profound each day, drove me toward madness. How can I rescue myself?

Where is everyone?

Where am I?

The question echoed, bouncing off unseen walls, an unanswered plea in the vastness of the unknown.

-VIC

Komentar

Postingan populer dari blog ini

Supernova

  Million bulbs in the void, bursts into a piece as its light disperse, like a supernova, we dwell in the fading light, fight against gravity and grow red, restart, become blue with fury, sedated by dark, concourse into the blackhole, turning it into a singularity, succumbing to the demise, reconciled with eternity. We were once scintilation, before we collapse into one, so what are we now? -vic

What Remains After The Great Gatsby-Scott Fitzergald

  I decided to read—and eventually buy— The Great Gatsby  after Haruki Murakami recommended it in his memoir  What I Talk About When I Talk About Running . Murakami wrote: “The Great Gatsby is a truly extraordinary novel. I never tire of its story, no matter how many times I read it. It is a work of literature that enriches you each time you open it. Every rereading reveals something new, something fresh.” At first, the story felt painfully slow. I even put the book down for almost two weeks—despite its slim length of just over a hundred pages. Jazz Age America, seen through Nick Carraway’s eyes, appeared hollow to me: a world filled with etiquette, polite conversations, and quiet arrogance. Everything shifted the moment Nick met Jay Gatsby. Something clicked. From that point on, I could no longer stop turning the pages. Gatsby stood apart from the people of East Egg and West Egg—mysterious, hopeful, and perhaps the only character who possessed a sincere emotional core in...

O, distant memory

How’s life, O distant memory? With hesitant steps I try to come closer You seemed reluctant to draw near. and I guess I can understand. You kept the space just as it is, But only for tonight Maybe you’ll let us talk about world’s history and conspiracy theories, and you will listen to my rumbles until dawn comes. But I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. The voice of sunrise arrives, and it becomes the end of our conversation. What’s new, O distant memory? Too late to greet you, ain’t I? You seem to drift farther along our broken line. Yet for now, let me hold you in my hand. We’ll shoot the bull about the parallel universe we used to dream of— because in this universe, we’ve wasted so much time. But I guess what happens, happens. I let you drift away through the clouds. I let myself stay still in possibility and impossibility. Will I always be reminiscing you? Will I find my way to you? O, distant memory Wander home to the silent shore  —vic