When the Night Has Not Yet Ended

When the Night Has Not Yet Ended There are nights when the soul does not wish to die — it merely wishes for the world to stop asking why it is still here. So I light a candle, not to illuminate the room, but to watch its slow agony. The flame dances like someone who knows they are going to be abandoned. And I understand. Everything I have loved seemed destined to leave: the hands, the names, the promises, even those versions of myself that swore they would remain. Perhaps living is this: a long funeral ceremony for everything that still breathes. I walk through the streets like a man who has forgotten whether he is returning home or merely searching for somewhere he can disappear without causing a disturbance. The clocks continue. How cruel. They do not know that some hours weigh more than years. In the mirror, my face resembles a tomb where someone still lights cigarettes. I ask the reflection: — After all, what are we waiting for? It does not answer. Perhaps because it already knows. Perhaps because I know. Outside, dawn begins to rise with that almost divine indifference of something that has never had to ask forgiveness for existing. And, for a moment, I think of opening the window. I do not know whether to let the night in or finally let it out. The candle is almost gone. The city remains awake. And I remain here, my hand upon the handle, not knowing whether I am about to leave... or simply open the door to another day.