Zadan ZarikReader, Writer, Reviewer

False promises swirl in the air, speaking of fragile moments, the uncertain future ahead. I walk past a hospital room, my eyes drawn to a child lying still, fighting cancer. Will he recover, or will his light flicker out? This dance of life and death is so raw, so cruel—a necromancy of uncertainty that we cannot escape.

People go on, their lives intertwined in the web of fate, walking hand in hand with their loved ones. An old librarian sits on a bench in the park, his eyes heavy with smudged hopes. He waits for someone to lend him a hand, for a connection, a warmth to hold onto. His eyes, worn and tired, are filled with an unspoken longing—for the Christmas carols that once brought him closer to life, to people, to everything he had lost.

Elsewhere, beneath a dim streetlamp, a man writes a letter to his beloved. Tears fall onto the paper, soaking the words in love. His emotions spill out in endless waves, yet doubt lingers—will she ever respond? Will these words ever find their way to her heart?

Children play by the ocean, building sandcastles, oblivious to the tide that will soon wash their creations away. They do not know when the sea will reclaim its land, nor the winds that will either bring a shipwreck or a gentle breeze to carry their dreams forward.

A tree stands tall, its leaves green and proud, unaware of the inevitable change to come. It does not know when the autumn winds will strip its branches, when the birds will leave its shelter, or when termites will weaken its roots, pulling it slowly into the earth. Its beauty, once so certain, is now vulnerable to time.

Feelings of sorrow bloom like an elegy—quiet longing for something lost. A drizzle in the desert, the light of an aurora, the fleeting birth of a star. Rivers carve through valleys, unaware of the paths they’ll follow. The scent of perfume that fades too soon, longing for immortality.

Uncertainty—this force that sweeps across everything—knows no sanity, no order. It erases all, casting its pall over my world once more, clouding my vision and holding me captive in its timeless grip.

I see a shadow shift into light, a fleeting transformation that captures my soul in its delicate moment. This is a time immersed in loneliness, wrapped in agony, where everything feels distant, as if the world has slipped into oblivion. Is this a moment of meditation, or am I just lost in the tempest within me? Voices surround me, but they are distant, faint echoes. I am here, yet not truly present, adrift in unfathomable surroundings, caught between who I am and what I am becoming.

I feel the clutching grasp of this world, yet I also long to fly free, to escape its grasp. Is this my kingdom of nothingness, or simply a vague, fleeting dream? I am lost in a virtual world, where splendor and beauty dance before my eyes, yet they feel hollow, insubstantial. There are scriptures, unwritten, that only my eyes can read—words, perhaps, that build great monuments of dreams, but they seem empty.

My soul, it flees from this world, retreating into its own hidden corner. It conceals itself, seeking refuge in an elfin world of fragile glass, a place that promises peace but offers only a false calm. This world—so delicate, so unreal—holds no true answers, only the illusion of tranquility.

So many words, and so many thoughts swirl within me, each one a paradox, an unsolved contradiction. Life itself seems to be this very puzzle—dogmas and disciples divide us, each human torn between opposing forces. Theft, coercion, the subtle art of influence—these are the shadows that dance on the edges of our reality, while rights vanish and yet somehow remain, obligations piling up in their place.

The irony of fate plays its cruel game—devil’s advocate arguing for the very forces of good and evil that churn within us all. We face sorrows and tragedies, tears that fall in a relentless rhythm, while menace lurks behind the mist, its reflection a nebulous blur of what could have been. Yet, there is hope, there is faith. Rapture, and merry-making—these are the fleeting moments that flicker like stars in an otherwise dark sky.

Life is a journey, and journeys are nothing if not challenges. Aiming, navigating through the chaos, we are left with only what we lose and gain. The body is but a puppet, its strings pulled by unseen hands. And we—like kites—are tossed in the wind, the hands of fate holding the strings that bind us.

Our existence is like the ashes of a match that burns brightly before vanishing into nothingness. Buildings rise, only to be shed in time. Wickets are broken, debris scattered, remnants of something that once was. Life moves on—scratched, eroded by the passage of time. After the volcano’s eruption, the lava cools and freezes into solid stone.

With rage, we flow, but at nothingness, we cease. Time becomes an intangible force, lacking direction or dimension. It passes by, slipping through our fingers like sand, leaving us with only fleeting moments. And yet, in the end, we are like the sea—at peace, caught in a tempest, carried by the current. Tears dry up, destiny is carved into the fabric of time, a statement made for good, an eternal provision.

Mortality and immortality—these are the oscillations we ride, the ebb and flow of existence. And through it all, we remain, like ships tossed upon the sea, both lost and found in the vastness of the universe.

A girl in red, with hazel eyes—she is the very picture of innocence, her smile an endless stream of joy that dissolves the melancholy of life. So pure, so precious, her eyes hold pearls of untold secrets. I gaze at her, a thousand words unspoken between us, as her presence lingers in the air, both familiar and mysterious. Beyond the surface, undercurrents swirl, silent and anonymous, yet she remains untouched by them, claiming she is nothing special.

To me, she is everything—a ray of light, a source of strength, and the embodiment of my faith. Her very existence is a poem in motion, filling the emptiness with rapture as if time itself has forgotten to pass when she’s near. The stars witness us, the street lamps flicker in the distance, and the fountains sing a quiet melody—this is the world she inhabits, a soul so innocent, a mesmerizing angel who has stolen my heart.

She is a prayer, an ode to something greater, her very essence an ethereal rhythm, a mystic oscillation that courses through my veins. She is the sole center of my life, this girl with hazel eyes, a light that illuminates the darkest corners of my soul.

If you are the sun of my life—radiant, warm, vivacious, and vehement—why then does this loneliness eclipse me again? If you are the book of my life, the chapters filled with tears and joy, why does my existence still seem to lack a moral? If you are the song of my life, each note brimming with love and merriment, why does my life fail to play that tune once more?

If you are an estuary and I am the edge, why does this thirst make me feel so deserted? If I am a free spirit, and you a fairy from an elfin world, why do I leave behind the realities and fall prey to illusions once again? If you are the sky and I am the night, why do you reveal your secrets only to leave me without stars?

If you are the first ray of light and I am the first shower of the monsoon, why does our meeting leave no trace of a rainbow? If you are the landscape, and I the veil, and life the map, why does the bridge of my love fail to cross the chasm that separates us?

If I am the king of my castle, reigning over the chambers of loneliness, why does the sound of your laughter defeat me so easily? If silence fills my grave and agony dies in the dark, why do my cries remain inaudible, lost along the paths of my existence?

If I am a body without a soul, a reincarnation of broken dreams, why, tell me, why do your thoughts slay me again, as if I am nothing but dust in the wind?

False evidence appears real, and I find myself imprisoned in the cruel clutches of harsh realities. Clad in torment and anguish, the world stretches before me, but it is veiled in darkness. The sun hides behind the shadowy sky, and the dove in its nest breaks down in despair. A crowd, lost on a shipwreck, is tossed and entangled in the tempestuous sea. The woman, hidden behind a rock amid war, tries to escape the violence surrounding her. An innocent child, once free in the playground, is stolen away, and a girl of five is sold for a handful of coins. The trees tremble under the violent thunderclap, their roots shaking in the storm.

A drug-addicted boy, left to endure his hell, undergoes a cruel form of eugenics, while a teenage girl, humiliated in broad daylight, bears the weight of shame in a world that judges her. Fear reigns everywhere. It lurks in the corners, gnawing at the edges of our existence.

The frail candle flame flickers as it melts away in the darkness; the mountain quakes and erupts with molten fury. Once bright in the universe, the stars now struggle against the encroaching dawn. The starved, tantalized by a few morsels of food, desperately cling to the hope of survival. Those who lie on deathbeds, deep in debt and despair, wait for a release they cannot find. People living in slums, abandoned by hope, shiver in the cold and the thunderstorms, their cries drowned out by the power of fear.

All of them, all of us, are suppressed by the necromancy of fear—an invisible force that haunts and enslaves, waiting in the silence to claim us all.