In the twilight of existence, as all closes like a withered flower

In the twilight of existence, as all closes like a withered flower, Monotony extends its tentacles over hearts, stores, and truths, Eyes blind to reality, souls struggle within their own darkness, And people, drunk on their own breath, drown in valueless systems. They do not grow but decay, their souls decompose in deafening silence, Eaten by invisible worms while they proclaim they truly live, Clinking empty glasses, scattering senseless words into the wind of indifference, Weaving spider webs called relationships, where they ensnare themselves, unaware. I, equally lost but thirsty for mystery, feed on enigmas, Day and night, a feast of the unknown becomes my daily bread, For without it, I would lose myself in the majority, becoming mere propaganda, A stubborn heart, a rigid mind, an ironic character in an absurd story. I seek real connections in the labyrinth of life, but my gaze strays in wrong directions, Searching correctly but looking wrongly, not realizing what I seek is already mine, Waiting only to be discovered, like a treasure hidden in the depths of my being, An endless adventure for my troubled heart, a perpetual and intimate mystery. Who would have thought that everything I sought all my life was already in my possession? Patiently waiting to be seen, felt, lived with the intensity of a divine revelation, While the world closes, I open towards the infinity within me, Discovering that the ultimate mystery is my very existence, an eternal and fascinating paradox.