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

Your Life VS. Mine - ORIGINAL PROSE

Your life, hidden from view, just beyond sight, as you seem so happy and full of joy, hope, longing for the future as it comes to greet you with a smile and a handshake. My life, as I drag my spirit behind me each day, just waiting for the next, always waiting, yet nothing happens, nothing comes, nothing at all has happened, yet so much has changed, so much has come to pass and I do not know any of it.

A baby, a new girl, a life all you're own, and here I write what the heart only longs to utter in poetic form, but what does it matter? What does it mean? Does the heart long to be listened to, to be consoled, to be reassured, or does it need to be shook so violently so, to be reasoned with, to be fought over in the most brutal, honest, true ways we all long to be pulled this way and that, to be dragged through the dirt as we come out the other end of trauma and life experiences, our hands held tight, our lips together, our hearts as one, as the red string of fate binds us together through hardship and misery to live a life so full and complete?

I have not a clue where to go from here, as I lie here in the dead of night, my eyes glued to my ceiling, so white and pale, so without life, so mirroring my own ghostly complexion as I have laid here day in, day out, as too much of life comes crashing down around me, as I look around at the mess I have left in my wake, wondering still what the point would be in wondering more, what the point beyond such trivial, individualistic, nihilistic matters of the heart would be, as my mind focuses on one point which stands out among others, like a lighthouse beckoning me home, but it is a destination from which I have been excluded, it is a home from which I am no longer welcome, it is the part of me which remains locked behind walls and bricked houses, residing somewhere inside your heart - the seed of my love, contained in each singular action and thought, from which all considerations were made, upon which all thoughts of the future rested on, as I resided here, in no-man's land, in a state of perpetual limbo.

I had thought we would make it to the finish line together, but instead I remain here, frozen in time like a statue, as its features of loss and longing, from the moment hearts were crushed and torn from chests, as a cruel artist, so hellbent on capturing the authentic state of the human condition, proceeds to mock, to ridicule, to relate so heavily to the anguish which follows such betrayal. What is betrayal but a broken promise, shattered across the floor; what is betrayal, if not promises never made, never spoken in clear, defined terms, yet spoken all the same, uttered so clearly in late night conversations and closeness when no eyes were upon us?

I am an artist, and that is why I write. I write to feel, I write to tell, I write to show what it means to be alive, but most days I feel not, I tell not, I show not, I am alive not, for what does it mean to be alive if I cannot be by your side? I am at a loss for words, only feelings emerge from the darkness, from the gloom haunting my mind, as these words reflect back my desires in the only way I can truly voice them, to show them, to feel them, to love and hate them in equal measure, just as I had you. It matters not that your life appears so picturesque, it matters not what came before, during or after, only that you still linger here and will not leave me be, haunting my words, haunting my life, haunting my mind, as if you never left at all, as if this were our life together, not a division between what's real and make-believe, as the line seeks to separate, to compartmentalise, to distinguish what I love and what I hate in equal measure.

I hate and I love you, I only want to be able to write again as though you never existed at all.