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.

Adventus Invictus Sancti

This poem has perhaps been the most helpful combination of words to get me through hard times.  I felt that this blog, aimed towards understanding myself would be incomplete without perhaps the most beautifully relatable poem i’ve come across, and the impact it still continues to have on me.

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What Ernest Henley wrote 127 years ago, still has the same effect on the reader as it it did then.

And perhaps that is the beauty of the written word, it stands unaffected by time. Time, which strives towards the destruction of everything in it’s path to prove it’s majesticity, seems to be rather helpless against the written word.

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“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul”

Until Later,
Captain