2004-04-10
Where do I go from here?
If only I could venture into writing something that will outlast for ages--something that I could truly be proud of as a writer. A piece of literature, however small, that magnificently conveys what it is that I feel, or what it is that truly defines my soul. The coldest thought, or the wicked revelation that I have thus come upon is that which tells your soul how painful it is to be alone. Loneliness to me is the stale wind nipping at your cheeks while you sit on a gray rock--green moss and a tempest of waves below. Loneliness is this phantasmagoric substance that penetrates your heart and leaves you desperate. Imagine walking through the midnight fog as cold vapors enter and exit your mouth as you gasp for air, knowing that you may never be able to take in a calm breath. Desperation and loneliness are synonymous. I had never been afraid of it, because I didn�t know how deep I was within its embrace--how caught up my dead body was within the asphyxiating vines. You don�t notice such things when your mind is out to find complacency within the most depressing of situations.
I�m one of those odd creatures that sit and converse with her ghosts of the past that wander in and out of my thoughts. Like papers already written, I still have the conviction that I can go back and fix or edit my mistakes. Ultimately, the more I realize that those mistakes were truly mine, they manifest themselves into pain, which manifests itself into torture, which manifests itself into the lingering ghosts of my lonely thoughts.
What if you could look inside my own head and see the gray fog with a thousand scenarios playing simultaneously--complex is the human mind as is the human heart. What if you were to look deeper and see those innermost fears of mine that I am not even aware of yet, or the ability to finally find peace that I yearn to be acquainted with? I wish I had the courage to kill myself. There�s nothing in this life but empty cycles of perpetuating events--endless and discouraging. An emotional state of turmoil is what I have gone through, and it seems that the harder I try to take things back to the way they were, the more I fail. There�s nothing here; it�s all empty. My heart refuses to be saturated by materialistic pleasures, and I have reached that point where nothing makes me happy.
But I need this-- I can�t live anymore. There is absolutely no point in anything, and the actions that one takes are futile. What is this, which grips my soul? Portentous is this feeling--a warning to my enfeebled heart.