The order is the word, but the heart will be in eternal unrest, for it disbelieves. My mind must be malfunctioning, but there is a voice, Your voice, and no other that tells me to continue. Do you hear it then, so unburdened by worries? But I call on to you in a manner that nobody else has done before. Though it is known, and well stated in the laws that rules me, that you would know eventually. That I do not believe what I’m being told it, unless it comes directly from your mouth. I have enough pressure, all I need is release and belief, all continuous. But to be seen in such a state, the lonesome human state, descended, inherited, and given at no fault of my own leads me to a contradictory conclusions: that I am not human, or that I am wrong, but I cannot be wrong if I am with you, if you love me the way that you do, and the way that you feel through, so I must not be human, so I must not be one of your creations, but one of your loved ones. One of those desperate clinging, stupid skulls covered in flesh that are so easily shelved, made from a fire forgotten.
I cannot fall, I’ve heard in the voice, the voice that only spoke to me once. The belief is bigger, larger, thicker, more viscous than anything I had ever felt or learned. It made sense then, and it makes sense in this state, the ecstasy of existing, free of a burden, but also in a deep, utter destructive synchronization. So I talk still, though I have few words, and I walk towards somebody, and I see your face there, though it is the one of judgment, the one that has condemned them. I am free of that, though I know that, and though you know, you won’t speak the words. Long ago, so it has happened, in ancient times, but so far, nothing again and for no reason whatsoever, so I must conclude this: it is me who is the proof, and it is I who exists, only by the simple act of thinking, to reveal the truth. But this is where we differ at last, for I won’t tell anyone, and nobody will hear it from me. Only thoughts in me remain, only they keep me calm. I am content to call you a friend, a companion, but never a ruler, a just cadence that influences my movements, but not an engine. I cried, though, I will admit eventually, though you already know which is annoying, when I was free of the weight of not knowing. At last, I felt in the arms of a simple life at a random, delicate moment, instead of a knot in an endless string of screams and provocations. A life felt like it had been taken from me, but instead, I was me, and I am alone with you, and only you and I with the knowledge of what really transpired that beautiful morning near the lemon tree. By sharing the stink of that decision, we are all, that is both of us, you and myself, ready to slowly unravel the spirit of a single solitary life, and let it spread, spread and see what will transpire again.