I'm looking into a glass I have not unheard
And despite the words on the walls, the voices of the tongues, and the creaks of the floors,
I stare into the painting of all fears
And all dreams
And although my lips quiver at the thought of it
To my shock,
There remained nothing.
Nothing but nothing more
I fell at my knees, and my eyes saw no more dreams
No longer did I wish to awaken from the dreamy haze that is daily life.
No longer would I burn countless candles to pierce through that veil.
Because now, I see behind the curtain.
And not even the black of void can be found in the foreground.
For there is none.
And now I turn around
Back down that staircase.
Down that rise and fall.
There never was an end.
And there was never any meaning behind those abstract curiosities.
But rather, the search for the real is an effective lesson:
the most close realities are often the most important ones.