I want to be sedated.
Escape the cold grasp of reality,
To slip the thin realm of insanity,
To experience all things – elated.
Bright lights and shadows,
Of a life, broken and torn,
Words left unspoken
And these lies continue to unfold.
Continue these choices
In hope, yet falling to despair
I can’t keep on holding
To this dream, I’m drowning in doubt.
Occasionally my poetry turns into songs. This is the latest one I’ve started writing.
Feet slap asphalt against darkened starless sky.
Stained cheeks puff cascading tears that won’t dry.
Gasps weighed in swirling crushing sigh.
My blue neighbourhood where scarlet wrists cry.
Did you know, that music is more effective in overcoming depression than counselling?
I read this on a billboard on my way to work, as music sifted through my car during early morning traffic. The thought that came to mind was “Music can also put you in a depressive mood.” which got me thinking about music in general and the power it has over us, our emotions and for me, my writing.
Tranquillity rests upon the shoulders of the weary, as fatigued induced slumber lulls the body and mind into transitory bliss. Time is cursory within the expanding dreamscapes painting afresh a new reality within the confines of consciousness.
Slumber, though peaceful, remains perturbed by reaching, prying fingers, groping from the darkness that is reality. Sweet dreams. Nightmares. Each carry the toxic atrophy set to dispel any sense of elation as dreams dissipate into the dark, dreary coldness of reality.
Its tumultuous, the chasm that lies buried below bone marrow and soft tissue. A constant throb reverberates through this dark orifice, in the hope that each beat sews and knits, weaves and stitches the tumultuous chasm shut – forever silencing the beast within. The chasm is a labyrinth, deceitful in its facade, beckoning the many into its walls, hoping to entrap them within its dark passages and endless doorways. Its cries echo within the profound darkness, calling out in despair only to ensnare and be ensnared.
We drape ourselves in the hollow, inconsequential threads of suspended disbelief – we are our own masters we say. Postulation concludes that the circumambient forestry is a shell keeping others out but in truth it keeps us in. We find joy in the transient, in the passing, in pleasing the now, aware that slumber is just as transient but living in it by it and for it.
It is time we woke up. This life is the slumber, the dreamscape we embed ourselves to in the hopes that the dream is reality. We endure the nightmares of life and revel in the sweetness of it, thinking its all real but waking up, we will find ourselves still in darkness. The question one must ask is…
Are we still living for this side of eternity or are we anticipating our wake on the other?
The answer to this question will influence greatly how you perceive the world and with it, every major decision you make. Why not Live Life in Light of Eternity
In response to:
We all have complicated histories. When was the last time your past experiences informed a major decision you’ve made?
The temptation to let himself sink into the cold abyss of the waters below grew stronger the longer he bobbed over the swaying waves. It wasn’t that he didn’t value his life, rather, it was the idea of living with the hollow chasm in his chest that pulled him down, a chasm that painted his world in shades of melancholy and depression. The problem was in the fact that he could pinpoint exactly where the feeling was coming from and although he tried to fill the emptiness with all kinds of activity, they all proved to be nothing more than distractions, distractions that couldn’t prevent the bursts of anger and sadness consuming his heart in the dark of night, when the bare pale ceiling hung above him like a weight, ready to crush his weakened soul. But lying there in the water, staring up at the blue emptiness above him…he could endure it all a bit more. The day ahead seemed to be looming over him, an avalanche of unwelcome emotion ready to bury him in the frigid darkness that defined his heart. Already he could hear the animated chatter and fits of laughter that continuously reminded him that he just didn’t fit in. Nails into the coffin for what he lacked was the ubiquitous emotion known as love. Not that he hated the emotion, nor the approaching event – rather it was the memory of the golden tresses that his fingers once slipped through that he always associated with the event; the soft thin lips, pink, pouting as they approached his own, eyes fluttering closed and that single skipped beat that suffused his chest with a deep warmth – a feeling inexplicable. So what then did he make of that cursed day? A memorial to a love lost, to the joy he can never reclaim? Or does it become a quest initiating epoch in search of requited love. He wasn’t sure but then again, in the warmth of the day and coolness of the waters and with the world around him awash in tranquillity, it was easy to just be.
Contemplative. That was what he was. A moment did not pass when he did not suffer the pang of regret nor the elation of delight as he contemplated his past. A particular moment had been surfacing during the course of his aimless drift along the waters, a conversation that had occurred beside him though he was not part of it. What he remembered most about that moment was that the golden tresses that he had so lovingly caressed, where now lying upon his chest and he could hear the steady breathing that emanated from slightly parted lips. His fingers had slipped through the silken hairs, and a mutter had escaped the parted lips, incoherent until he’d whispered against the soft ears,
“I… can not…. love you.” the lips repeated, barely above a whisper but loud enough to dig daggers into his beating heart.
“You can not…love me?”
“Mhm…I cannot.” the tresses had swung slightly with the imperceptible shake of head.
“Why not?” he’d asked but the voice was silent, asleep.
Melancholic. That’s how he’d felt, the next morning as light filtered into the room in which they had fallen asleep, watching as fingers wiped fatigue from sleepy eyes before the grey orbs fell upon his own with inexpressive emptiness, as though his existence had no meaning. Echoes of an unspoken conversation swept through the chasm that once held his heart but he feigned a smile.
“Morning” He’d said.
“Good morning!” A reply and smile returned to him.
“Did you sleep well?”
“You make a great pillow so yes.”
“Are you calling me fat?” A playful slap across his arm and sweet laughter filled his ears, but they could not dampen the rising flood swelling up within him. Nonetheless he let it pass, he let the tranquillity wash over his emotions as he extended a hand out.
“We’ll get fat together with some breakfast.” He’d said playfully, hoping to illicit a different emotion within himself. As the hand clasped around his, he found that he couldn’t, and never would. Not while his heart was in chaos.
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