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

The human condition: why we love and hate - ORIGINAL PROSE

As I recall those moments, as you exit my life, I think back to it all and can only laugh. As I recalled then, how things felt and I wished for it all to last forever, each moment of my life, but it slips through my hand time after time, time and time again as though my life is a story already told, a book already written, a movie already played. From friends to lovers, they all seem to blur together, I end up missing everyone I have ever met, though I'm sure they dont nor would ever think to remember me, to keep me in their thoughts, to be torn apart by my absence - why would they? What would lead them to think or feel such things, for she who means so little? I cannot let go, so I'll write instead, placing a piece of every relationship I've ever known in each syllable, in every word, as a piece of myself and who I once was remains immortalised for all time. And now, I closed the book from which all my deepest, darkest secrets and desires reside, allowing my mind a moment's respite from the turmoil of my tormented, unhappy mind, allowing myself to breathe as my head breaks the water's surface, as my demons threaten to drag me under, far beneath the waves, once more. I couldn't help it then, as I fight and struggle against their strength, their persistence, but still I push on. Now, I delve back into the things I wish to forget, as I close my eyes and allow the pen to glide across page after page, guiding my hand this way and that, allowing my inner self, she who lives in my heart as all things do, to write what she may, to convey all she must before page after page is consumed by fire, by rage, by water, by misery. I envision my past selves, as they turn to face me in my mind's eye, as my childhood self cries and never seems to stop, as my teenage self stifles her tears and lashes out with a pain so tangible it can be felt radiating through the very air itself, while the version of myself I had been not too long ago, as the young adult I had been emerged into the world, only stares blankly ahead, hopeful in an odd sense of the world, yet still carrying the weight of the world upon their shoulders, as their knees begin to buckle and their back begins to break. I hug them each, as I cry too, overcome still by the weight of my own heart in my hands, before I return to myself, to the world I both love and hate with equal intensity, as I read each word, each syllable, each letter with careful, well-concentrated consideration. It reads like a poem, it could be sung as all sad songs are, as each lyric conveys all things kept hidden from public scrutiny, it could be read as a book from which each character holds a piece of the author as all great works of literature seem to do, seem to follow suit, but all I can do now, as I read and understand that sadness shall never leave, as always remain, is write and write, to find new ways to convey the human condition, and hope, that all time heals all wounds, it shall form scars from which I can remember those no longer present without the weight of the world bearing down upon my soul, to stand for as long as I might, without the very hand of god keeping me from my feet. You left, and I am still here, and thought I hated it all, hate to give time to all things which worry me so, my inner self wrote about you with an intensity which scares me, which speaks to the intensity which I love, hate and everything else in-between. From friends to strangers, the heart remains firm in what it feels, and feel it we must, as much as we can, to be as human as we might.