Melancholia

melancholy

The sense of numbness that comes with the leaving behind of childhood. Morning makes way for afternoon blues. Head ravaged by snot and despaired dreams, the horrors of my soul can be found in the bathroom toilet. Cigarette smoke unleashing the hell of what I am, there’s no joy to be found in the opening of tired eyes. It’s all a useless mess, just like the rest of it.

Feed me my favourite flavour. Let my hopes ascend to some higher place. This body dissolved, replaced by a vessel pure with intent. It’s in the warm embrace of spring. It’s in the distant touch of two lovers separated by conflict. Lullabies bubbling in the undergrowth. Blind faith worshipped over sense. But no sense makes sense, so what’s the point in pretending either way. What’s the point in looking back when all you see is more and more junk. There’s a storm inside of me that will never subside. In my mind and in my heart, I will never be at peace. Since birth, the need for something more haunting every step. A language not spoken. Images out of reach to all but those who choose to walk a lonely path. All those footsteps, a journal each and every one of them. All those moments lost in the chaos of life. They race for the finish line, yet it never comes. They build for the future, but the future’s already been and gone. Know yourself. Trust those voices within your head. Be kind. Be honest. Praise children and animals. Respect fallen idols and the silent. Love the ones that never leave. Hate those with no meaning. It’s a damned life at times, yet there’s beauty begging to be found. Just look around.

The inane babble of pointless opinions. Everyone wants to be heard, yet none of them have anything interesting to say. The need to be seen, to not fade away. The universe doesn’t care. It feels nothing. We are a witness to the death of sin. Sacred feelings died along with the leaves last fall. All of this is just a charade. Every last whim, just a passing blip in the stretching of time. It makes me ill. Being surrounded by these insects, it leaves me cold like a planet without a sun. There’s only space and hell. In each and every town and city across the land, misery seduces at will. Routines placate. Happiness in bondage. Tied down to others, the chains of work and play suffocate daily. Year in, year out. Decayed beauty and the loss of freedom. Heaviness drowns. From clowns to bankers and back again. With the curtains drawn all sounds are muffled out by the pillows upon my head. Buried in warm sheets, I’m leaving this world behind. Escaping through sleep into dreams, there’s little that will ever be missed. None of them will ever be missed. While they edit their lives without end, I’ll be slipping into another realm. Where man has never stepped foot nor seen, I shall be constant. With nothing to restrain my heart and soul, my desires shall paint themselves as they see fit.

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