There’s something quite enchanting about darkness,
The mystical facets of childhood fairytales seem to tie endless lengths of string around breathless moments and pull them into a continuum of wondrous nostalgia. Those moments will never be the same—frozen, pulsing with resonant light. Perhaps it’s the lack of words which desperately yearn to escape from the confines of the speaker’s lips or the boundless concept of life pouring into the lower part of the hour glass, like the ever-evolving sands of time that causes a moment to stay perfectly imperfect. Maybe it isn’t.
Either way, as soon as something is spoken it dissipates into the air around it; it taints the energy it lives in.
When a moment is lived, it no longer exists and all that remains is the dance of vague moving images to inaudible, non existant music.