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There are realities that fade
like ink, parts of whose spirit
are being lifted off the paper
by time and the elements.
And there are realities that
hurtle to the ground
and shatter on impact.

There is a kind of darkness
that trickles onto the surface
and seeps its way to the core.
And there is a darkness
that burns the house down
from within.

Faith does not die
without a worthy struggle.
There are questions that
keep its grave shallow
and its silence fragile.
There are testimonies
that keep its heart beating.

The night is bloated with blame.
The ticking clock
is numb with sorrow.
All rhyme and reason,
lost in the transition
from solid ground to free fall
is reduced to noise,
an endless banging of
an empty drum.
No, no, no, no.
Why, why, why.
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.

These things must come to pass
as had long ago been prophesied.
Except, you only thought
you were prepared.

But there is no time to find
a substitute for the truth
that was pulled from under your feet
before you have to carry on
and hold up the roof
and make sure the children
do not starve.
So you make do
with the light of an impostor sun
and go through the motions.
And wait to be rescued.
Or for the end.
For surely, nothing much
must come after this.

“Enora” by photographer Julien Tocanier


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