At times writing is like a strenuous climb upon a walking mountain with a slippery and unstable surface
A mountain with a peak far from being tainted by the stench that reigns at its monstrous feet
An infectious stench that turns all that it kisses into a rigid structure that has become a stranger to silent remembrance and emptying forgetfulness, still gods with the scent of yet to be born flowers living in their breathes
A scent that cracks open a forever changing passage through the stench’s immense kingdom
A passage that leads to the mountain’s monstrous feet, temporary refuge for escapists of rigidity
Escapists with hearts that beat songs from mute ancients that studied and mastered the art of metamorphosis from form to formless
From nothing to human
From human to nothing
From life to death
From death to life
To the in between untainted
Songs that lead to the still gods that grant passage to those light enough to ascend the mountain
A walking mountain with a peak exploring the infinite nothingness where nothing needs to make sense
Freedom from rigidity
Freedom from the stench
Freedom from reality
At times writing is like a deadly climb up a mountain just to inhale a fresh breath of air.
Son of forgotten gods
