nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

That's when the sadness hits me - ORIGINAL PROSE

And then it comes, like a tidal wave crashing against my mind and heart, as it threatens to pull me under. I cannot escape it, I try to fight it, I find myself hoping to lose myself in the push and pull of each terrifyingly strong/aggressive motion. And then, I am pulled further and further beneath the waves, losing light with each passing moment, wondering still why I try to push up, to take one last hauntingly satisfying breath, before it ultimately becomes my last. And then, silence follows, as I lie here in my bed, upon the bathroom floor, against the wall, trying to find the words to speak again as I must pull myself through, to face the world as I fight the urge to scream, to stand as others stand, to appear as content and happy with life as any other. But it seems that cannot be, as never been, for every person I pass on the street, every smile hides pain, every laughter disguises discontentment, every movement is a push forward in the eternal fight to survive, to thrive, to endure. Alone, I feel, as my screams echo out through my mind, and empty I feel, in my heart, as I push down emotions of distress further still, until the time comes where I am unable to dig them up, to reveal my truest self even to my own reflection, late at night, all alone, with no other in sight.

I feel sadness, each day I breathe,

I feel lonely at night, when I find myself alone,

But I feel intense love for others in this world,

And find beauty in the flowers or in the sunset, filmed through my phone,

I find myself writing to write, searching through my mind,

I search still for the words to describe how intensely I feel,

It amounts to little, to words without meaning,

Until a rare day comes, where I write and a masterpiece to me itself it reveals,

It matters not how many days I feel sad,

Nor how many happy moments I recall, on the back of my hand,

It matters not what words I use, only that I use them still,

And that I relish in them for all time, like time as it slips through my fingers like sand,

And so I write here now, the words I have used each day since the first,

A day I picked up a pen to record my innermost thoughts, no rhyme or rhythm involved,

And here I sit, as each word follows another,

As my skill has been perfected, as the words have begun to slowly evolve,

But what matters most in the end, whether I'm happy or sad,

Is that I write still and never stop trying,

So that when I look back at my life in years to come,

I can say it was all worth it in the end, with little room left for pretence or lying.

Happiness, it comes and it goes, like the day and night, like winter and spring. Some days, I hate it so, for the sun appears oppressive in the sky and it hangs over my head - overbearing, always there, never-ending still. I long for the cold, I long for shorter days, for I find I thrive in the dark, writing by candlelight as I record all the words I had little time for during my days, which had crossed my mind, fled for fear it would appear naked and vulnerable if it were to come to light, to reveal itself to all. And as the days begin to feel so much colder, I wrap up warm and find that I cannot leave my bed. And so, it seems this shall continue until my last winter and spring, as summer leaves crinkle and die, as trees begin to look barren, haunted, eerie in the gloom of winter, as they reach out to steal away the light of life like witches' fingers, like monsters as illuminated by lanterns in the deep, dark woods of my mind.

I am a writer, I have always been since my first breath, I only hope to capture the world in its entirety, in its most raw, honest form, as it appears in its darkest, most benevolent, yet so strangely beautiful. To do so otherwise would be a waste of words, would be a failure of humanity.