Aliveness

 Unless everything stops for an instant, and that instant, that terrifying moment of primal solitude expands into an eternity, unless everyone realises that the sunlight you see and the moonbeams you see are nothing but instruments of illuminating the void, the void that is ever full and ever empty both at the same time, unless you look for a flower inside yourself during the hours of habitual hell - the purgatory of repetition and oblivion - unless you take a deep breath and swim over the shadowless ocean-bed that is your job, your family, even your name, unless the question of Being haunts your sweet memory of yourself like a sleepy giant, unless you leap over it, a small nagging feeling that the slimy sensory world watches itself through you, unless nothing remains except everything you looked for, unless life, or the negation of it, whatever suits your schedule that you stopped to care long ago, happens in your heart for that everlasting moment, you have not sensed aliveness.