IV
The house is eerily quiet, and my footsteps are as loud as my heartbeat when I walk around the living room. It is strangely clean—the sink is empty, the floor vacuumed, and the blankets neatly folded on the couch, yet the atmosphere seems tense and unrealistic. I walk into the kitchen where a flower bouquet peacefully sits on the table, its petals slowly dying, falling off the forest green stem that snakes into the copper vase, oxidized from age to a dead shade.
I walk through room after room, searching for something that could lack a feeling of senselessness, something to look up to, sensations of fortitude brought down from space. However, there are no sensations—no indistinct feelings of contentedness, just the hum of nothingness strung throughout my universe. Coming full circle, I meticulously walk back into the kitchen, light on my feet like the indescribable golden beams piercing through the window, which lay its gaze through a cloud of dust, peacefully drifting along a theoretical linear trail. The cloud distorts and disassembles as I pass through it—the hole of a human that remains. I watch the dust in its violent state, twisting and turning like a chained creature, yet eventually settling down to the ground, the remnants that anything had happened merely a memory derived raw from its ultimate counterpart: a present reality.
The house is eerily quiet, and my footsteps are as loud as my heartbeat when I walk around the living room. It is strangely clean—the sink is empty, the floor vacuumed, and the blankets neatly folded on the couch, yet the atmosphere seems tense and unrealistic. I walk into the kitchen where a flower bouquet peacefully sits on the table, its petals slowly dying, falling off the forest green stem that snakes into the copper vase, oxidized from age to a dead shade.
I walk through room after room, searching for something that could lack a feeling of senselessness, something to look up to, sensations of fortitude brought down from space. However, there are no sensations—no indistinct feelings of contentedness, just the hum of nothingness strung throughout my universe. Coming full circle, I meticulously walk back into the kitchen, light on my feet like the indescribable golden beams piercing through the window, which lay its gaze through a cloud of dust, peacefully drifting along a theoretical linear trail. The cloud distorts and disassembles as I pass through it—the hole of a human that remains. I watch the dust in its violent state, twisting and turning like a chained creature, yet eventually settling down to the ground, the remnants that anything had happened merely a memory derived raw from its ultimate counterpart: a present reality.
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