Empty Clouds

Sometimes, I draw empty clouds on the sky of my life, believing I can shape them. In a burst of inspiration, I fill these fragile outlines with people, dreams, plans, infinite egos, and above all, poetry. White verses crowd into imprecise spaces until the clouds collapse under their weight, and everything I tried to build falls apart.
It rains suddenly with metaphors and illusions. From this poetic chaos, a paradoxical painting emerges: the ground turns white all at once, but winter burns with its whiteness, uniting contrasts. Leaves fall along with people, mingling into a sea of cloud fragments and scattered hopes. In the east, a broken shape crashes noisily. It seems like a disaster, but I try to draw an imaginary line, a boundary to bring the clouds back to life.
Their empty appearance deceived me; my desire to fill them caused their undoing. I am nothing more than a human being crucified in the middle of a field of clouds shattered by the weight of people. I reach out to retrieve dreams from the debris, but instead, I find stones. Cold, unforgiving reality replaces magic.
Night falls gently, wrapping the world in a veil of silence. I struggle to find a rhyme, but my verse remains broken. I promise not to do this again tomorrow. It hurts too much, and I no longer find meaning. But perhaps meaning isn’t where I’m looking. Perhaps I shouldn’t be searching at all.
I write one dream and move on to the next, as if life embodies an endless chain of illusions. I settle for the image of broken clouds, of people who lost their dreams, and I fall asleep. This time, I don’t set the alarm. I let tomorrow dissolve into the silence of time.
What is happening to me is spectacular. Even though it hurts, the beauty of that pain is worth writing about. Perhaps I won’t draw empty clouds again, but I will surely write about them. There, among the ruins of poetry and earthly dreams…

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