To Be Is a Verb

 

To Be Is a Verb

Truth and lies dance together like shadows at dusk — inseparable, indistinguishable, shaped by the light of whoever observes them. From some angles, the lie dresses itself as truth; from others, truth disguises itself as illusion. The weight of each one only reveals itself when we dare to tell them apart.
And what if everything we lived was true only while we believed it? And what if now, as we look back, it all dissolves like mist under the sun? Memory is a cracked mirror — it reflects, but it distorts.

Planting a courgette seed expecting to harvest a pumpkin is like waiting for life to give us answers to the wrong questions. A watermelon will not be born — neither miracle nor metaphor will save incoherence.

Emotions, ideas, sensations — they are siamese sisters that govern our being. They ask for no permission; they simply take the throne. They feed on our days like hungry wolves and, even so, make us feel alive.

Intuition? Perhaps it is destiny’s whisper, perhaps only an echo of fear. It separates heart from reason like a river splitting a mountain — beautiful, yet treacherous, ready to collapse into an avalanche.

Curiosity is a torch: it can illuminate or ignite. But without it, there would be no epics, no discoveries, no transcendence.

Keeping stories in chests for millennia is like preserving embers beneath ashes — they warm the soul, but they also burn with longing.

Living without chaos would be like drinking water without thirst — bland, mechanical, almost cruel. Entropy is the seasoning of existence.

Let us not deny what we are. To be is a verb that demands action: to live, to live, to live. Even if the world splits into parallels or crosses into diagonals, we are the intersection. Essence cannot be denied — it pulses, insists, resists.