There's an ailment in me,
I can feel it everywhere;
behind my knees,
deep down my eyes.
It runs deep under my skin,
It claws down my throat,
It craws up my bones,
it wakes up my brain.

It takes me from order to chaos.
It turns from finite to infinite,
Like darkness at night.
But it doesn't make me fire,
It doesn't turn me into light.
It just turns me into a hunter,
which prey is the shadow of a final thought.

Perhaps I should just forget the noise,
try to create the most alluring poetry.
Give birth to a beautiful sentence,
write the perfect words to please the lovers.
Yet I'm unable.
There's just so many other paths for me to take,
To create, to follow,
To pull others with me.
"I think I'll stay on this path.
This one's also good, though."
And just like that.
My future mutates,
Day by day, hour by hour.
Book by book.
Even my religion and ideologies change with every thought.
But I'm always moving forward.
Always, always forward.
Or so I think...

Maybe we are never here, nor behind, nor in front.
Maybe we're all just a stirring combination of am and to-be.
That would explain so many things,
Cuz lately 'I've been trying so hard,
So, so very hard.
To cross this difference of planes.
But this task seems doomed to begin with.

It's time to go now.
It's time to wake up,1
Time to change, again.
So I rise to the moment,
and I discard the past.
Forever new,
forever young, right?

Finally ready for all departures
I'm starting my life all over again,
for the hundredth time.