I Am Here, My Ethos.

chapter 13: The Light at The End of the Tunnel is a Bulb

Reality is a construct, it is imaginable. I built it on a whim. To be honest, it could've built itself, I wasn't aware of my tenure. I was somewhere else.

My thoughts aren't always honest, but they were licensed to give opinions.

"I'm not the best leaseholder." I knew of life way before my judgment.

It happened that I was responsive to my being. I knew of his psyche. I wasn't attentive on my part, I was barely conscious of my existence.

A child, they called him home at eight. He thought it was getting dark, the offer was time to sleep. Bed time was always imminent.

Timothy has left a barrel in my life, somehow I didn't fill it up.

Time did not reign, nor did it wait. The wood creaked at night. A sentiment to reminisce. The time speaks of something recent. A bulb is usually the last thing to go out when leaving.

The light at the end of the tunnel is a bulb. 

Timothy now knows better than eight, it was his to clock. The large was his character. Time did not wait for no children.

Older, he had to roll with its monstrosity.  Time is forever. He swore he feared no creed.

The height did not bother him. Nor did the attention. He followed it defencelessly. The boy didn't know of his heed. The part where he lost focus to be interesting.

He bought a cigarette pack.

He was sensible, aware of time fiction. The climb is not to seek the face of the mountain, he learnt of its danger. The lighter burns the end. The climb is will, but the wise is dull. Time takes no victims, only accusations.

Attentive to my demise, I follow the light defenceless. I hope it reaches the tunnel. I didn't know of its hostage, or its length. If I knew I would've refused its undertaking. Why must I find the focus to be interesting, to aim where the light is.

I'm buying a pack of cigarettes.

I tell the dark to flaunt its jewellery, not wear it. I fear no evil.

The light at the end of the tunnel is a bulb, not candle. I fear candles.

Farewell, to escape the grasp of giving attention is not to seek the face of the mountain. Death is not short in presentation. The light at the end of the tunnel is a bulb, I hoped. It was my thought that created an idea, that prolonged the process. The bulb was metaphor. The fall was greater. Death comes in cycles.

I now know of my time.

The meaning of life is not in its sentence. Dying is not the magnification of time, but is the end of thought, that lasted function.

I left the light on when I left, I know the meaning of indication. In my case, intelligence is fortune and telling.

My claim is delegating life's announcement. I'm not going to leave space a tenant, or an angel. I'm leaving a certified engineer. 

If space is proclamation of time, we are not immortal to its sleep. Time is forever but we see its distance. To a child, the mirage is luring in its detention. The bulb at the end of the street is my conviction, and reassurance.