I stand at the tip of a stick, sniffing the present. A present that smells of burnt sugar and candied illusions, an era in which sacrifices are worthless coins, and words float empty, incapable of clothing any genuine emotion. Everything feels like a carnival show, where tears are mere props, and pain is consumed under the spotlights, with the audience in rapture, cheering on tragedy as if it were a circus act.

«It’s sweet, bonbon!» echoes from the crowd, a weary refrain of a humanity that has lost its taste for authenticity. Pleasure is prefabricated, feelings are second-hand, and emotions are sold at a discount, neatly wrapped in shiny paper.

And yet, the end is nothing but a state of mind. Square. Geometric. Rigid. Just like the souls of those who have stopped searching. Sensations are no longer lived. They no longer erupt, no longer stir, no longer burn. Instead, they fade. They hide behind objects—clinging to the edge of a table, dissolving in the reflection of a grimy window, vanishing into the keys of a phone that never rings for a real conversation.

Perhaps that is why silence becomes the only safe place for words. Hidden there, beneath the weight of a season that dampens their edges, maybe they will survive. Maybe, one day, we will find them intact in a world less mediocre. A world where we no longer applaud tears but understand them. A world where words are not stripped of meaning but clothed in truth.

Perhaps not all is lost. Perhaps, beyond this sugary illusion that numbs our senses, there is still room for authenticity. But to find it, we must let go of appearances and dare to truly feel.