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Friday, 10 November 2023

702's Ephemerality

Eoulapa was now back at home from his strenuous field trip. Recalling his thoughts from last night, he again started ruminating: "Room 702, red specks midst darkness, before my eyes. Everyone else was sleeping, it was 3 in the morning, I got up and sat on my bed, my eyes wandering around, and what I saw was merely more darkness. The bodies of Hungeo, Pemmaìn, Aufisü, and others blended with the background."

Eoulapa paused, processing a rather sophisticated notion: "Huh. Sometimes I forget that people are people. I mean, some of them are my friends, some of them acquaintances, some of them forever strangers... But it rarely comes to me that they are humans - rarely does it occur to me that they sleep, bath, age, and eventually will die. Goodness - things never stay forever, yet we fixate on our experiences with them, without realising that one day they shall fade. Without realising that friends leave us, go unheeded, and re-emerge once on funeral day. Like a supernova - a star comes into sight, ages, culminates, abates, and dies on the highest note, before mingling with the vast void, becoming nothing but unilluminated dust, remnants of its past glory..."

Eoulapa leaned on his desk and continued: "Argh. Perhaps it's just me, in which case this will be even more dismaying, but the eventual future overwhelms me every time. I guess my pettiness is being intruded by opaque significance, our ephemerality by abstruse eternity..."

And then he was stuck. "Maybe I've led myself to the wrong conclusion tonight," he thought.

~Written 10/11/23 21:58 at home.

Hills and Mountains

Þiu͓͆ fïŋ͓̱̄ yo̽kȋ͓pā tîaŋ̑fin̄, påît̑ nö̑yuï͓̯̑ ri͆ fïŋ͓̄ niz̑ ħüṉ̽. Pėz͆wiîẕ͆, wō “ħė̑kȋ͓ŋïn̽” sū, an̄di͓̪͆ ŝėt̄sem̱͆, u̽lādö̽.