The Dying Arcade, prose by Zuzanna Rosińska at Spillwords.com
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The Dying Arcade

The Dying Arcade

written by: Zuzanna Rosińska

 

The light that comes with the first fall of snow is almost dazzling. With the onset of it, the world is built on contradictions. The contours are softer as if painted by someone tender, but an inescapable feeling of coldness accompanies you even when you’re inside. You can hide behind the walls, but your hands remain cold and the steaming tea caressing your face will lose its heat within the blink of an eye.
The consciousness of the passage of time feels like a headache you used to have as a child freshly awakened, told it was time to go. The brightness of the dark outside confuses your senses. It’s a light of forced insomnia, the entrapment in reality. Let me just lay down, you think. Close my eyes for a brief second.
Life then fades away like a shadow at dawn. It’s the winter of the body, it’s the winter of the soul. It’s the dying arcade, the end of the year. It’s the end of the prayer.

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