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What is the sound of one clapping hand?

Some days, not even the warmest smile could lift her up.


Like a jellyfish sitting in a chair, her hands could barely hold her head, so heavily filled with vague ideas. The contrast was brutal. A blank page, naked. Her thoughts, as loud as an injured wolf howling on a full-moon night, yet unable to break free. Trapped in what could have been just if. Her skin felt thicker than ever, a high-security prison for the wicked soul. A finger escaped to increase the volume of the radio. Every single piece of news was fatal, destruction and self-destruction, an ode to cynicism. “How can the world be so fucked up?” she thought. Time was wearing away the candles, weakly dancing with the shadows surrounding them. Her breathing, inaudible but cold. The street lights were fading in the background, like the end of a long song, their remains framed by last-century windows. She dreamed about tasting the void of black holes in space. But the world’s limits were too present to wander, to wonder how to run away. Away, where? “A puzzle not worth solving” she sighed. Long ago, she remembered her dad reading in front of the fireplace. It was one of those books she fancied understanding, though she was yet a raw fruit waiting for spring, naïvely wishing for the sun to grow her into a woman. She stared at him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Why are our minds able to formulate the questions but voiceless when it comes to answers?” she finally said, posing yet another silenced inquiry. “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” he answered.


Years later, she was still bugged. The questions orbiting chaotically like tiresome flies. Life is a morbid game. One in which there are no winners or losers, just pawns. And like kids on a hopscotch, we’re jumping from one question to the next one. The only difference being the end-game or the lack of it. Is there even a goal? Or are we just part of an eternal chain of “The End”. Years and years of history, a succession of brilliant minds and Nobel prizes… but what do we really know? Why aren’t we all hopeless nihilists? Existentially, metaphysically. She was momentarily distracted by the coffee stains on the table’s mat. No coffee left in the cup. The room, immersed in a semi-transparent darkness. She looked at the ceiling, stretching her neck. “Well, it will eventually go away” she thought.


Some days, not even uncertainty could push her down.


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