Bouquet of Answers

I remember the times I wandered in silence through this bleak, frozen street. A wasteland, three steps ahead, drowning in a heavy, choking fog.

I remember tracing the broken seams between the narrow cobblestones — and from a few of them, life still dared to sprout. How cruelly poetic it was.

Back then, I walked alone — always alone — and every step tore open another glimpse into the hollow depth of my existence. Silence was my only companion — my ruthless counselor, my inescapable judge. It spoke truths too raw to ignore. I bite my lips until they bleed, trying to strangle the anxiety that seethes beneath the surface, only for it to strike back harder — cornered for too long, desperate to break free.

Anxiety that erupts brings nothing but destruction — sudden, frantic, chaotic. That is the hell I fight to hold back: the cataclysm of truths without anchors, the incisions that slice my skin, slow and deliberate.

A thread of blood — bitter, murky, deceptively sweet. If the road to here left me barefoot and battered,

what horrors lie ahead? No walls can block a broken soul from chasing after meaning — a dying chase for a bouquet of hollow answers.

If all answers were given freely, perhaps we would no longer need the brutal mercy of uncertainty to shove us forward into the unknown. But more is always demanded. More is never enough.

I walk the razor’s edge of life, watching black-and-white flashes of what once was — ghosts flickering behind my eyes.

One blink, and it all dissolves into ash.

This dead-end street,its rotting square, its dying tree — from there, I feel the pull of what was — a small, crumbling piece of everything I once had, still lingering, already lost.

Another cycle begins — empty promises made, others fulfilled by accident. We gather vertigo like scars, collect failures like trophies.

And farther I will go, walking through the ruins of the place where I once anchored what little remained of me.