Diary of a Dunce

Sleep

Such a strange thing life is... So fragile and complex. We think we have it all figured out and then we quickly learn that we do not in fact have it all figured out. That realization is often alarming and many struggle to figure out some way to have control again, but things are never that simple as I've come to realize.

There are so many unexpected variables that come to play, and my issue always came with focusing on all the outside things that I neglect myself many more times than I'd like to admit. I stopped writing, stopped caring, stopped living. Even now I can't say I've started doing all of that again, the exception to that is writing I suppose. There have been many people that have taken care of those I love and myself, but i can't stop thinking about how useless that makes me, at least currently.

The world seems so grey now, and I find that tragic because I can remember a time I was excited about living, excited about life and the new adventures I'd embark on. I battle with the thought of life meaning something to me for other people and the feeling that... It just... Doesn't. To die of a broken heart seems rather poetic to me, to love someone to the very core of your being to only break apart when they are no longer there. I find it beautiful. There's more to life than this, at least I'd like to convince myself there is. Mundane complacency plagues everyone I know, and I don't want to be apart of it, I want to live.. but not like this, not here. I crave the peace of sleep but even now sleeping doesn't seem to help much. Same routine, same complacency, same weight.

I think it's easier to say you'd die for someone you love, but to live for them? That requires strength, a mass of willpower, and determination to live life in their stead. Death is a mercy, one that may end your own suffering, or perhaps pass it on to another... The latter is preferably avoidable. That is if you choose to live, despite the pain and anguish of it all. Life, death change, and stagnation... All crimes humanity has to endure the effects of at some point or another. Why do we seek things that are so fragile? To give us comfort in a facade of control? There is no control. There is only the wind and choices people make. I don't want to live in a world where we ignore the confines of a lie, where murder and suffering are commonplace. Where a person's mind can begin to eat away at their resolve on loving, on living... This isn't my world, it's a prison. And lady death offers a great mercy by releasing the key, and allowing a tortured poet to exist on a different plane.

Legends, myths, fables... They were true at some point. But to find it, I have to leave the mundane complacency... The irony is not lost on me. Who knows what lies behind the doors lady death holds the keys to? I'd like to picture it's peaceful.