dantefkaesky

[dantefkaesky]

Last night I saw, it was arguing with a painting. And the painting, oh, it answered! Not with her words, not with her voice, but with the terrible stillness of eyes, of her gaze which sees too much, knows too much, knows me too well. So I did what had to be done, I tore out my mind and set it loose—if you see it, do not call it back. It has finally found its place, and I—I am free.

[dantefkaesky]

I must leave. Yes, leave. But where? The world is wide, yet there is no place for me. Here, there, everywhere—I have lived, and yet I have not lived at all. I tell myself I am free, that nothing holds me. And yet—I am held. By what? By duty? By love? By the quiet weight of kindnesses given without asking for return? I tell myself I owe nothing, and yet—there are faces, memories, hands that once reached for me. And if I leave without a word—would that not be cruelty? But who decided I must be kind? My life has not yet begun, I think. And perhaps it never will, here. Perhaps this is all there is—the waiting, the lamenting, the silent desire for something that never arrives. And if I go? If I leave? Will you care? Will the world notice? Will it pause, even for a moment? Or will everything continue as it always has, as if I had never been here at all? Let me go, then. For my life shall begin where you all think it ends.

[dantefkaesky]

Memories—O memories! I do not leave you, and you do not leave me. Whenever I shut my eyes, I see you, memories. You burrow into the walls, into the streets, into the faces of strangers. Memories, I hear you laughing; I hear you crying within them. I always watch you in silence. I dream of you, memories, and you, memories dream of me! Then tell me—who's the dreamer, you or I? Perhaps we both are nothing, as you exist because I do, and I exist because of you. Memories, you're mine, and I, but a deceitful memory. Tell me, memories, where do you end? Do you end? Perhaps the memories never end, nor do I. Or perhaps—neither of us ever began. Or perhaps—there is no I, no you, no dream, no dreamer. Then tell me, memories—if neither of us began, then who first remembered whom? Am I your memory, or are you mine? Or are we both the remembrance of something that never was? Tell me, memories—what if the first thing ever remembered… was the emptiness itself remembering it was empty? Then what, memories—if the emptiness first remembered itself, was it ever empty at all? Or did the first thought birth the abyss, and in its birth, was it not already full? Tell me, memories—what if to remember is to create, and to forget is to die? Then who, in the end, shall forget first—you or I? Or has it already happened—have we already lived? and now just watching over the memories of a world that was never dreamed.

[dantefkaesky]

The last time I was alive, truly alive was before I was born. Yes, yes! I remember it, though I should not! A life before life, a being before being, sleeping or living in some terrible, silence where I was complete, where you were with me, where everything I loved simply was. And then—then came the fall, the violent, merciless tearing away! Birth! Ha! They call it birth, but I know it for what it is—what that throw us here, where nothing is real, where I am nothing, where you are nowhere! Do you hear me? It will not break! I scream, but no one hears. I weep, but the world does not care. They speak of life as a gift, as a miracle—oh, the fools! The blind, chattering fools! Do they not feel it? The weight, the sickness, the wrongness of it all? Or is it just me? Tell me, is it just me?But no, no, I know the truth. I have always known. Death is blessing. Death is the answer. Not an end, no, but , a great and terrible blessing. And when I pass through, when at last I am free, I will find you there, waiting, as you always have been, as you always must be. And before the throne of God, I will bow, I will weep, I will demand, I will rage! "Do not send me back! Never again! Do not tear me from them! Do not thrust me into that wretched world where neither I nor they exist!" Because you and I, we do not belong to this world. We never did. We never will. And perhaps, when I wake, I will remember that I have already said these words before.

[dantefkaesky]

There were days when I longed to scream—loudly, fiercely—as though the sound might shatter the great weight inside me. I wanted to weep, to purge my torment and cast it far from myself, but in the end, I always smiled, a strange smile for my own confusion. Everything turned to quarrels, senseless and bitter, and the silence swallowed me. I became a prisoner of it—my silence, their silence, the silence of everything. The child I once was, a lively and cheerful boy, was burdened and smothered under this silence. I feared their judgment, feared they would not understand, and so I silenced myself. Yet still, they misunderstood. How cruelly ironic. So now I just go with the flow—quietly, lonely—wherever life carries me. I am emptied of feeling, a man who exists not because he chooses to, but because existence will not release him. And though my heart longs for escape—to vanish into mountains, meadows, or dark woods where I might exist alone, just me and my silence—I know there is no escape. But what does it matter? The people I call upon, the ones I swore would never change, changed. The ones I believed would never turn their backs, turned back, as if I were a trouble in their path. And when I reached for them, when I needed them most, I found only the emptiness they left behind—an emptiness that gnawed at me, spoke to me: What are you to them? To keep away that self-doubt from devouring me entirely, I learned the art of leaving—leaving before I could be left, abandoning before I could be abandoned, even though that is what they desired? And yet, in their eyes, what am I, but a spiteful, immoral, unscrupulous man? So now I've come to reject those very human relationships that once seemed so full of beauty, for I know now I am unfit for them. I am not made for the warmth of others; I am a misfit among their affections. At night, when the world is sleeping to its terrible silence, I think of erasing myself entirely—(No, not death, but something stranger) of disappearing into the thin gap between existence and nothingness, where I might cease to trouble even my own thoughts. I imagine myself lost in some forgotten place, erased from evryone's memory, where I am neither seen nor missed. There, the burden of being left behind, being misunderstood, would fall away, and I would finally find rest. And yet, at the edge of this absurd, stupid, tormenting thought, something holds me back that I have a family.

[dantefkaesky]

How terrible and awful is this suffering! I miss you with a pain that beyond reasoning, as if my entire body has been thrown into an abyss. I go through my days like a guy burdened with an unfathomable crime, the burden of your absence dragging down on me mercilessly. What is this longing? what is this suffering? if not a punishment—a punishment for daring to believe in happiness, for daring to dream for us? Daring to love our memories. But could such a thing ever be mine? Perhaps it's all yours but not ours. And yet, I cannot let it go. How could I? I would endure this torment, carry this burden for a thousand years, over and over again, if only to feel you in my bones, in my fleshes, always within me, with me. For wherever you are, is where I should be. If you are at the hands of death, then I shall take his other hand. Just because you are my pain, I endure it a lot. I could free myself, I know, but to do so would be to erase you from me, and to erase you is to erase myself—to erase who I am. Without you, what is left of me? What would I become? A hollowed man, a heartless man, a spiteful man, a man who has betrayed the only truth he has ever known, “all I loved, I loved alone”. So, it is better to suffer, to endure, to praise this torment that keeps you alive within me. For without it, there is only one thing—and that is nothing.

[dantefkaesky]

I felt it when Søren Kierkegaard said, “Do it or don't do it; you'll regret it both.” I agree with him. When I tried to leave my memories behind, I regretted it; and when I embraced them, I regretted it too. In my way of telling her how much I love her, I regretted it. When I wasn't truly able to express my feelings and left unsaid words, I regretted that too. I waited and waited, wondering how my life would look if I waited for her? I would regret that! What if I don’t wait for her? I would regret that too! If she stood before me now, what would I say to her? Would I feign indifference and declare that I no longer want her presence? Or would I admit the unpalatable truth—that I have come to accept my unworthiness? Yet, does it really count? Does she care? Does anyone care? My prayers were blundered into the silence that seems to mock my existence, as if the one who prayed has vanished, lost somewhere. I don't know this stranger I have become; he isn't the man who once loved her. Where is he now? I can't find him anywhere, as if I've lost my soul. I regret letting him go, letting her go, letting everyone go from my life. I regret for praying such things—But what if someday my prayers are heard? What if she comes back? She would find nothing—neither me nor my love. The only things she might find are dead leaves and flowers, and she would regret!

[dantefkaesky]

I felt it when Soren kierkegaard said, “Do it or don't do it, you'll regret it both.” I agree with him— When I tried to left my memories behind, I regret and when I embared it, I regret, in my way telling her how much I love her, I regret and When I wasn't been truly able to express my feelings, unsaid words, I regret! I waited and waited and wonder how my future would look like if I wait for her? I would regret! What if I not wait for her? I would regret!If she stood before me now, what would I say to her? Would I feign indifference, declare that I no longer want her presence? Or would I admit the unpalatable truth—that I have come to accept my unworthiness? Yet, does it really counts? does she care? Does anyone care? My prayers were blundered into the silence that seems to mock my existence, as if the one who prayed has vanished, lost somewhere. I do not know this stranger I have become; he is not the man who once loved her. Where is he now? I can't find him anywhere, I regret for letting him go, letting her go, letting everyone go from my life. But what if someday my prayers are heared? What if she come back? She would find nothing— neither me, nor my love, the thing that she might find is dead leaves and flowers and would regret!

[dantefkaesky]

And I didn't know how to kill myself, so I loved you. When I knew how to kill myself, then I loved you more! I despise myself for all I have done for you, all I have sacrificed. You will never understand me-not even my poems, my letters, my art, which I created solely for you. I feel as if I should burn them all and get lost somewhere, vanish into nothingness, as if I had never existed. Though I barely exist now, barely clinging to the remnants of a self that is slipping away. Will you come to stop it from slipping out of my hands? I am ashamed-so ashamed of myself that I cannot hate you. To love you is to inflict a wound upon myself, draining me, leaving me hollow. This love has become my torment. When will this torment truly end? When will it stop? Will you come before I am lost entirely? Will you come to me before it is too late? Will you ever understand the depths of my love for you? Will you? Will you? Or will it remain an unanswered question somewhere in the silence between us? What can fill such silence between us? Can you fill it? No! Even you can't fill it now; in fact, no one can fill it! Let it all just go to hell!

[dantefkaesky]

In a world full of laughter and bright faces, we stroll through haplessness. There are many faces to happiness in the world, but not for us. We see carefree delight in the eyes of others, but our own expose a void—a painful empty space where joy ought to exist. It feels like we’re trapped in a theatre, watching a life that isn’t ours. The heaviness of existence bears down on us, making even small joys feel like burdens. We are stuck between the world’s brightness and the darkness that eating us alive. Yet still, we go on as if nothing has ever happened. I can't believe how far we've come in three years! Many times, we fought with each other, but in the end, we're still brothers. I'm really very grateful for all the memories. And yes, last year left us with scars, but that's not the end; for the end is always the beginning of something new. And yes! Now I think you were right—we need to move on. (I'll never! Hahaha) My prayers will accompany you wherever life takes you, my dear brother, may you walk in the light of love, peace, and happiness. — khuda Hafiz? Not yet we're not going anywhere.

[dantefkaesky]

Pain is my inevitable companion; it's so familiar that I no longer question its right to exist within me. Each day, it slips into the corners of my mind, of my heart, of my soul, quietly, as if it belong there, as if it have always belonged. I cannot well remember when it first arrived, nor do I expect it to leave; I feel its presence in every thought, in every breath, a reminder of my own fragility. I endure not with strength but out of habit, out of mere acceptance, a resignation to this absurd existence, a creature of routine, dragging this absurd existence forward without knowing why. I seek meaning, yes! But what do I find? Nothing but an ever-deepening abyss! An emptiness that is eating my hopes, leaving nothing. Yet with each passing day, I feel like I'm in between what I long for and the harshness of my reality. Leaving me to wonder if it is not the pain that binds me, but the profound, disquieting fear of a world that might exist without it? What am I without this torment? The thought alone troubles me! My existence feels attached to this suffering, as if to remove it would be to erase me. Pain is my companion; it was always with me, it is my mentor, my reward, my truth! Because of it, now I know—who I am, what I am, and what remains when all else is lost!

[dantefkaesky]

What am I, in the eyes of most, but a mendacious, wayward spirit—a scoundrel filled with deceit? If this is the truth, so be it. Perhaps I'll never be able to make you understand; in fact, I'll never be able to make anyone understand who I am; perhaps it's my fate to remain misunderstood forever, but if someday I could paint with the same madness with which I write, if only I could paint what I imagine, then perhaps the entire world might know what this scoundrel really has in his heart. Everything would have been beautiful if only I'd painted it like the way I have painted you in myself. And what if I'm truly able to paint what I dream of and can portray the depth of my love for you? Then you would see why I insist that you are the most beautiful person in this world. I will try, though I know it’s futile, to preserve your memory. To keep you alive, breathing in some corner of my mind, of my heart, of my self, if nowhere else. Through my paintings, poems, stories—I will tell others, though they may not care, how much I loved you. But who can truly understand such love? The more I try to immortalize you, the more I realize how fleeting all of this is. Still, I’ll persist, as if by stubbornness alone I can make you eternal, though I know the effort itself is doomed.

[dantefkaesky]

They says “There's a justified stupidity in this world. And that stupidity often called love.” But do they know? They talk about love in the abstract, but what if they knew about me? That this stupid, scoundrel who absolutely, senselessly, terribly love loved someone. What would they say if they knew I'm stupidest of all, ruining my life with this “justified stupidity.”

They say love conquers all, but right now, all I'm conquering is a growing sense of love of being dead. And maybe, just maybe, this "justified stupidity" is the only thing keeping this dull world meaningful, beautiful. And I'm happy that I'm the stupidest of all, I'm happy that once, and still, I loved you.

[dantefkaesky]

The human nature is often marked by a tendency to ascribe misfortune to the will of a higher power. Our troubles are as light as a paper, the thing that makes them heavier is us. We grapple with the concept of theodicy, questioning the existence of a divine entity in the face of suffering. Yet, perhaps this suffering is not a punitive act, but rather a redirection. where an apparent ill serves as a necessary part preventing greater ills.

Free will is a fundamental aspect of human existence, If everything were predestined, then the evil humans commit would also be written by God. However, it's not that God leads us to do something; rather, our fate is written by us and watched by God. He simply knows what is going to happen.

[dantefkaesky]

And I still remembered that all I wanted to remember was to remember you, but all that I remember is that I don't remember you anymore. Good night.

[dantefkaesky]

One must always hope to die in order to live.

[dantefkaesky]

I'm searching for nothing because nothing makes me happy.