Fallen, Again.

“Write Hard and Clear about what hurts”

Everything, Mr. Hemingway. Everything Hurts.

The Past. The Future. And this dreadful In-between.

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A lifeless grey. But darker. More scary.

Once again trapped in the storm, I’ve tried so hard to run away from. But, it’s not just the Depressive grey shadow this time. This time it’s also an anxious suffocation. Like Drowning in Muck.

Will this never end?

Is this time, it is the end?

Where are the fucking endings when you need them?

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I’m a broken person

Held together with the fragility of a feather. One touch away from shattering into oblivion.

And this is why I don’t let anyone come close. This is why I have to be alone. Because I fear being shattered. Because I fear revealing the emptiness inside to anyone who comes close.

But at times like this. Every devil that I’ve tried so hard to hide inside this hollow seems to reveal itself. All at once.

And once again, I am forced to face with this weak, helpless reflection of myself. As I start imploding within the hollow inside.

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I drive myself mad: suffocated by existence.

The clergy keeps reciting tales of torment and agony.

Yet, here I am, tormented by existence and feelings.

So, at times I stoop to God; at times I seek refuge in wine.

When oblivious, I vanish; when conscious, I am in anguish!

Without the strength for peace, without the courage to agitate,

When I look all over, it is my own being, revealed and concealed:

I am the one who made the nectar; I am the one who made the pulpit.

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Everything happens when it should.

Storms don’t end early

But they don’t end Later, either.

Time is continuous.

This too shall pass

One of us has to end before the other

 

Until this passes.

Goodbye.