I have been meaning to write to you, but time was a constraint. Time constraint, not a new thing, really. We were suffocated by it since forever and will continue to do so until we are free of feeling it. Depending on respective beliefs of the afterlife, you may believe that you will be free off of feeling it or you believe you will never escape this pain. I believe in something. In such a short span of perceived time, this mortal body has endured its lesson on temporality. I know it's quite tempting to get carried away and stagnating. I know you're blaming the inertia. Truth is, I never meant to write to you but I have to act like I did.
To be fond of things already passed.
To not want to let go of things.
To hopeful chase of uncertainty.
I know disconnecting is simply ignoring the bleeding wounds. You've told me a thing or two about your past and I assume I know the entirety of your existence. In retrospect, I was dipping my finger on Mariana Trench.
Hey, I've been stuck somewhere in the past and I've disconnected myself off my present. Nothing around me feels real anymore. I'm dissociating, probably, I am dead because time once again feels like the jelly of a mitochondria and I'm drowning in the matrix. Life floats away.
Swim, swim away, swim away, swim away.
