Life in an irreversible escape
.
The truth is this: we are not only travelers through time.
We are also witnesses to erosion.
Life rarely breaks things in a single blow.
It loosens them, slowly—almost patiently—like something that never rushes because it never loses. It takes in small portions. A name. A place. A certainty. A season. It subtracts quietly, day after day, as if the ordinary itself were a lesson in the bitter craft of letting go.
And yet, something in us insists.
We keep running.
We keep building.
We keep loving.
Even when we know the wave is coming.
Even when we know its nature is to reach us.
Perhaps that is what makes existence so strange—and, at times, so beautiful: not the promise of permanence, but the stubborn refusal to live without meaning. We keep forging significance inside what is temporary. We keep planting tenderness in unstable soil.
The human heart is an architect working among ruins, and still it raises bridges. Still it writes poems. Still it offers generosity, affection, quiet care. Still it is moved by a sunset—by a dawn washed in color—by the innocent song of a bird or two, as if the world, despite everything, still deserved reverence.
Until, somewhere along the path, the flame surrounds us.
Not as punishment.
Not as tragedy.
But as conclusion.
And then what we call “the end” is not an explosion.
It is a final pause.
A retreat.
A soft closing of the door of motion.
What remains is what has always been waiting beneath the noise of the hours: the dense silence—where memories thin into impressions, and impressions drift, carried by unseen winds across the immensity of the cosmos.
And perhaps it is there, inside that silence, that life finally tells the truth about itself.
Not an inventory of victories or defeats.
Not a balance sheet of gains and losses.
But a brief flare of consciousness moving through the vastness.
A lucid moment in which we exist, we love, we lose, we remember—
and with no guarantees at all, we still dare to call it meaning…
even though permanence, deep down, is only the most elegant form of desire.
At last, the welcoming silence