The Walk - Midnight

The Nights I'm left alone

Winters are awfully cold, aren't they? You wear too many fabrics, cover every inch of your body with scarfs, hats, gloves, clinging onto to your overcoats while stepping outside your warm, dimly lit up houses. Perhaps, buying presents or getting cinnamon scented candles or going out in desperate hopes of scrambling a last minute Christmas tree because your family decided to visit unannounced and now you have to do all things the traditional way or perhaps you had a simple change of heart and decided to celebrate. That's the sprit of Christmas, I guess. The sudden urge to make a snowman, to have hardcore snowballs fights with the neighbours kids even though you're old enough to have one of your own. It's a funny feeling, it's the time of the year when I feel the most lonely, though I'm surrounded by the people I love most. Happy faces and happy smiles don't do it for me. And it's sad, it's sad because while you're cleaning your house, wrapping gifts, taking late night walks through the snow, you're all alone. You don't have a hand to hold onto that'll keep you warm, no one to hug or share your miseries with. Don't get me wrong, I'm not yearning for a lover, just a companion. Even pets don't live long enough for me to call them family. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a broken record, forever living in dissonance with no stability, perpetually seeking an escape. I'm like that one minor chord, the one that transforms every happy melody into a sad one.

The world feels very dim today. It's drizzling instead of snowing. Thus, there's nobody's outside. Everything's wet and muddy. No one wants to ruin their new, expensive clothes. And here I am, walking again, walking right into the mud puddles, refusing to wear a raincoat or carry an umbrella, glancing at the homeless by the side of the road, at the shivering street dogs who're gonna die soon in this cruel winter, knowing I can help them but I won't.

I don't have the time and heart to help anyone anymore. There was a time when I loved the rain. The feeling of raindrops falling upon my bare cheeks and dwelling away all my fears even though all I thought about was death. I'm an awful writer and an awful friend. Aching for an understanding, I can't make my readers feel what I write nor can I make my friends feel what I speak.

It's His birthday today. People are happy, they're all mindlessly celebrating, it's a joyous occasion then why the sad face, Arthur? Is it because I hate Him, God? What good has he ever done? People still starve, criminals are around everywhere, women are never safe, homelessness is no longer uncommon to hear, government is still sucking on our money. People are always fucking depressed.

Forgive me, for my thoughts drift too much. I go by what one calls a Stream of Consciousness. I don't think too much when I speak. When you over analyse the meaning of one's words, it strips away the raw essence of it. It just becomes insignificant, another thing to let go and forget as if it were words on a paper by a literary theorist.

But, the real reason,
If I were to share it right now, you might walk away too. So, bear with me.

I'll tell you more when we walk again, promise.