Placid despair

I dream of what at first resembles of words and thoughts of revelation just to find out, when awake, I had been visited by them before. So then I read, searching for that one line that will unwrap the up to then silent parts of me. And I've been invariably caught into a cycle that leads me to old conclusions, trying to recall evidences that time has passed in these last years. I wonder if there is something yet to be exposed. A contortion of a view, an urgent need of non-existence or supra-existence:  more than flesh - more or just another.
I shut all the books in a placid despair.
Let silence be.