"Endeløst (Danish for "Endless")”
Something common to the human experience is its time.
Being here, breathing in, staring at these words; it’s all a part of moments and hours. A part of stories and tales and feelings in empty houses. They are the things that most days we call ourselves, and the days for those that we don’t.
"Du er, som du er, så upræcis, så langt fra ikke en smule merd"
(You are the way you are, so inexact, so far away from a bit more.)
We move from bed, drive to work, wake in sorrow, and sleep with pain.
Endless. Some days feel endless.
We get stuck in cycles and rhythms, pulled by preachers and chains.
We build up walls and wants and desires, and yet somehow they end up torn down. They end up as tapestries adorning the doorsteps of our pasts, ready only for all to be walked on—the least, lest we forget.
"Alt det du løber mod, ja, det er så endeløst"
(Everything you are running toward, yea, it is so endless.)
So often we emerge from our castles, costumed and ready for battle, but when the moment comes for opening act, we realize our stages are empty. That the amphitheaters of our hearts are just empty hallways, carrying the ringing of our voices.
"Hvor langt skal du gå før du tør kigge lidt på dæmonerne"
(How long will you go before you dare to look at the demons?)
You see, we are not made to be broken, just the same as we’re made to be fed; with dreams and hopes and subtle things, preparing our hearts to beat red.
We are people who know days to be endless, but we are soldiers redefining the fight, we are eyes and ears and sights and sounds walking forward into the night.
"Du kan sige, hvad du vil, men hvorfor siger du det ikke, som det er"
(You can say whatever you want, but why don’t you just say it the way it is?)
As we arrive at beginnings, and follow our feet to the end, we see distant clouds and parting trees—the sunrise, it waits and depends.
The sunrise, it waits for your moments.
The question is, will they be endless, or can they be infinite?