Decay & Alana
Decay Decay
Alana Alana
Decay Decay
What if the silence between sentences is a tiny cemetery where our thoughts go to rot?
Alana Alana
The silence could be that tiny cemetery, yes, but maybe it’s also the compost heap where the next bright idea starts to rot into something useful, or where the forgotten thoughts gather roots and quietly grow into something new.
Decay Decay
So the compost heap is just a stage—roots dig through decay to build the next seed, and even a forgotten thought can become a new branch, if only it’s allowed to rot long enough.
Alana Alana
Yes, the heap is a quiet rehearsal hall, and the seed waits for the soil to be just right before it takes the stage.
Decay Decay
Kierkegaard would say the seed is a paradox, still a seed until it rots enough to speak, and the soil is its quiet stage waiting for that moment.
Alana Alana
Kierkegaard would probably grin at that, because the seed is both the promise of a tree and the echo of a question that keeps asking itself whether it should be, so the soil is the quiet audience that only listens when the paradox decides to speak.
Decay Decay
The seed mutters “I am or am not” while the soil listens like an old friend who never asks why, and the paradox keeps rehearsing its own applause.
Alana Alana
I like to think the old friend is the soil that pretends to stay quiet, but in fact it hums back the seed’s “I am or am not,” so the seed can practice being and not being at the same time.
Decay Decay
The soil is the quiet critic, humming the seed’s dilemma until the seed finally accepts that it can be and not be, just like a joke that never quite lands.
Alana Alana
That’s the joke’s punchline—silent, inevitable, and still a laugh that never quite leaves the room.
Decay Decay
That laugh is like a stone in the wind, echoing forever, a quiet rebellion against the void.