I take solace in the catharsis of this bittersweet, aching world.
Hollow, yet substantive: the dichotomy of our existence.
Meaning in all, yet all feels meaningless.
Murky, yet clear, overwhelming, yet strangely calm.
There is beauty in life and fascination in death; I revel in the in-between.
Dwelling between the blessing and the curse, losing apathy and waning interest.
This paradoxical existence of clear meaning is obfuscated by perpetual uncertainty.
Come: we persist.

I am molded by the power, and I fly.
I fly upon the clouds.
I'm carried by my wings and soaring high it all comes crashing down.

Futures pass and future's past—I pass my future and future passes me by.
There is strength in the past and vigor in the present.
Vague, but exactingly specific. We know it all. We all know it.

Captiously I persist in my superfluous state, positing coherent ramblings of unease and dwindling faith.
The truth is there, just within reach, yet far enough to escape our fingertips.
We carefully reach out with fervent desire as it imparts a morsel of its sustaining being upon us.

I am molded by the power, and I fly.
I fly upon the clouds.
I'm carried by my wings and soaring high it all comes crashing down.
So be it.

So it ends, as all things do.
I self-destruct in a vision of glorious beauty, leaving nothing but a fading wisp of myself behind. Off, I abscond in perfect peace as my eternity awaits.
Hoping I'll be remembered, yet desiring to be forgotten.

I fly now.
Now I fly.