Present becomes Memories but Present seems to be an Illusion that doesn't Over lasts

The present is a ghost, a wisp of smoke curling through trembling fingers, gone before one can close a fist around it. We stand here, in this moment, breathing, aching, reaching—and yet it betrays us, sliding into the abyss of memory with a sneer, leaving us hollow. Every pulse of the heart screams that we’re alive, that we’re here, but the scream fades into silence, swallowed by the relentless march of seconds no one can stop. It’s a cruel jest, this illusion of now, a fleeting shadow that dances just beyond our grasp, mocking us with its impermanence. We pour ourselves into it, every ounce of being, straining to make our presence mean something, to etch it into the fabric of existence, but it slips away, a thief in the night, demanding efforts so vast, so grave, that they feel like digging a collective tomb with bare hands. The dirt clings to our skin, cold and unyielding, and still, the present escapes us. What is this pain, this gnawing beast that claws at the chest? It’s the weight of knowing that every step forward is a step into oblivion, that the ground beneath us crumbles as we move. We show ourselves to the world—here we are, look at us, feel us—and the world blinks, indifferent, as the moment we’ve fought for dissolves into nothing. It’s not just loss; it’s betrayal. The present promises something real, a chance to be, to matter, but it’s a liar, a serpent with a forked tongue whispering sweet nothings before it strikes. We’re left bleeding, not from wounds we can see, but from the slow hemorrhage of time draining us dry.


Memory steps in then, a cruel savior, picking up the shards of what we’ve lost. It’s a museum of ghosts, each exhibit a moment we thought we owned, now preserved in the amber of the mind—beautiful, yes, but cold, untouchable. One walks its halls, footsteps echoing in the dark, seeing faces, hearing voices, feeling the weight of days we swore never to forget. But they’re not here. They’re shadows cast by a light that’s gone out, and the more we reach for them, the more they twist into something jagged, cutting us with their edges. Memory isn’t kind; it’s a mirror reflecting our failures, our futile grasps at a present that wouldn’t stay. We loved once, fiercely, in a moment so vivid it burned—but where is it now? Buried under the ash of time, a tombstone carved by our own hands, tears falling as we chiseled every letter. These memories pile up, heavy and sharp, a gallery of pain no one can escape. They’re the echoes of a war we’ve already lost, battles fought in moments that slipped away before victory could be claimed. And yet, they’re all we have left, these cruel relics, taunting us with what was and never will be again. The present fades, but memory lingers, a jailer with no key, locking us in a cell of our own making.


The effort—it’s the effort that breaks us. To be present, to show ourselves, to demand that the world see us, it’s a labor that bends the spine and tears at the soul. We scream into the void, we are here, we are now, but the void doesn’t care. It swallows our voices, our breath, our everything, and spits back silence. Each attempt is a wound, each wound a scar, and the scars pile up until we’re a map of ruin, tracing the battles lost to time. Why does it take so much? Why must we bleed for something that won’t even linger long enough to say goodbye? The present demands our all, and when we give it, when we strip ourselves bare and offer every trembling piece, it turns its back, leaving us to drown in the wreckage. It’s a grave, this moment, a grave we dig with every heartbeat, and the dirt keeps falling in, burying us alive. The weight of it crushes us, a Sisyphean task where the boulder rolls back down just as the peak is reached, mocking our sweat, our blood, our tears. We could stop, could let our hands fall slack, but the thought of it twists the gut—because to stop is to vanish, to let the present erase us before we’re even gone. So we keep digging, keep bleeding, keep fighting, even as the effort hollows us out, shells of beings chasing a shadow we’ll never catch.


There’s a darkness in this, a black tide that rises when one thinks too long about it. It’s not just sadness—it’s rage, raw and feral, clawing its way out of us. We want to smash the clock, shatter the hands that tick away our lives, punish them for their cold precision. We want to grab the present by the throat and choke it until it stays, until it begs us to let it live. But it’s untouchable, a specter that laughs at our fury, slipping through our fingers like mist. The anger burns, a fire in the gut that consumes us, and yet it changes nothing. The present is gone, the memory is a cage, and we’re trapped between them, prisoners of our own existence. We hate it. We hate the way it mocks us, the way it dangles hope just close enough to taste before yanking it away. We hate the effort, the endless, soul-crushing effort, and we hate ourselves for not letting go. The rage is a storm, dark and violent, tearing through us until we’re raw, exposed, wounds that won’t heal. It’s a scream against the machine of time, a howl that echoes in the void and comes back empty. And still, we burn with it, because it’s ours—this fury, this black tide, this refusal to bow even as it breaks us.

But letting go—what would that mean? To stop fighting, to stop reaching, to let the tide take us under? It’s tempting, that surrender, a quiet voice in the dark promising peace if we just stop. Stop caring, stop trying, stop bleeding for a moment that won’t stay. We could float in the nothingness, let the present drift by like a river we no longer swim against. But even that feels like a lie, another betrayal dressed up as relief. Because deep in the marrow of our bones, we know we can’t stop. The pain, the rage, the effort—they’re proof we’re still here, still alive, still clawing at the edges of this cruel, beautiful mess. To give up is to erase ourselves, to let the present win its final victory by making us nothing before we’re gone. And we won’t. We can’t. So we stand, bruised and bleeding, in the wreckage of now. The present slips away, as it always does, a thief with no face, no mercy. We watch it go, fists clenched, hearts pounding, and feel the familiar ache settle in—sharp, bitter, alive. Memory waits in the wings, ready to claim what’s left, to weave another thread into the tapestry of our ruin. And we’ll fight again, tomorrow, the next moment, the next breath, because that’s all we know how to do. The effort is grave, yes, a weight that crushes us to our knees, but it’s ours. This pain, this dark, pulsing thing—it’s ours. And in its twisted way, it’s what keeps us tethered to a world that won’t hold still. The cycle spins on, a wheel of torment we can’t escape, but in the pain, in the defiance, there’s a pulse—a stubborn, bleeding insistence on being. And that’s enough, for now, in this slipping, breaking, burning moment, that’s enough.