An enigma in the twilight was before me,
In a decaying and decadent dwelling
where I fell into a deep slumber.
The silence after the storm.
That was all I could hear as I stared at the ceiling, decorated and inlaid with grotesque figures, cobwebs, and peeling paint.
I was reflecting on my life and my dreams.
It felt as though I was already inside one of my dreams, yet I could not be certain whether I was conscious or not.
The pendulum clock could no longer offer that familiar chime that once marked the hours — and with them, time itself.
The deafening silence had filled the entire mansion, whose walls were adorned with portraits that stared at me as if they wished to reveal secrets — or perhaps their memories.
Was the enigma in the twilight merely a product of my imagination,
Or could it be that this ancient and dilapidated place
held enigmas my heart perceived as a potential object of interest —
a heart now emptied of all the feelings it had carried through a lifetime,
senselessly and heavily, like a tremendous burden?
The only clock that marked the hour was an old timepiece,
And it seemed to have stopped at exactly 22:22.
The strange air of the mansion allowed the night to seep in
With a peculiar glow that filtered through the curtains — thick, but not too thick.
It was a house rich in memories and forgetfulness,
in joys and grudges, in violence and death,
in life and love, in ugliness and beauty,
In magnificence and horror.
Absorbed in my thoughts and lost in my memories,
I fell into a state of deep melancholy and sadness,
as if an abyss had swallowed me whole
and forced me to live a life in a non-existent world
of sorrow and ghostly recollections.
Elisabetta
