Dulling Of The Senses

My mind is a whirlpool of autumn eyes and half-remembered dreams. Dancing within, she torments me without even trying. The beautiful one, the one who’s struck me dumb with love. There are so many words I could use to describe her, but none could ever do her justice. In the future, when we’re floating somewhere in the stratosphere, no one will ever know the way she makes me feel right now. The nature of her desires and the essence of what she is will forever remain a mystery. There’s no way of describing her. It eludes me, as does she. Easing my aching body into the bath, I swallow a mouthful of beer and remember what it was like to be a child. There were no tomorrows. The future didn’t exist. Living for the moment came naturally, and all that mattered was to be happy. The adult world has failed me. In comparison to the days of childhood, adulthood is nothing but a mess. There’s no magic, only useless structure. The madness of being young is something I cling to. Probably why I turned to writing. Got to create a gateway back to when the magic flowed without reason. A little portal to keep me going. With each mouthful of beer, the melancholy washes over me and takes hold like some kind of vacant lover. Wishing myself into her arms, it leaves me feeling blue. Unable to enjoy the soothing of my bones any longer, I dry myself off then lay down. There’s nothing I want to do. Motionless and without thought, time passes in unknown quantities. It’s already dark outside, and there’s no clock to remind me of the hours I’m wasting. Not moving a muscle, I prepare for the onset of sleep, yet it never comes. I’m wide awake in a darkened room, with nowhere to go and no-one to speak to. Eventually, I do fall asleep. There are no dreams, though, only darkness. When I awake, I see that I’ve got a missed call. Thinking it’s her, my heart skips a beat only to find it’s from someone else. It’s late now. Going for a walk into town then for a couple of drinks with a friend, my spirits are raised somewhat. Being around other people brings me back to life, but seeing all the lovers makes me detest their stupid faces. Drunk, I act the fool but underneath I feel anything but. Writing, that’s the key. That’ll get me through it. Write down every emotion and thought. Get back in the mindset, recapture the flame that used to burn so bright. Know that it’s what you’re about; what you’ve always been about. Stumbling up the stairs to my room with a can of beer and half a smoked cigarette, I sit at my desk and get ready. A little music to put me in the mood, I feel focused. This is what I’m all about. This is what I do. Only I think of her again, and everything pales in comparison.

Categories: Journal

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