Grandeur is a Pill Better left Swallowed

Untitled Intentionally

Vexed? Or smitten? I don't know. How can I distinguish between two things I do not have the pleasure-nor the displeasure-of knowing them. In this instance, however, I feel as if this is the image of vexing.

I'm being tranced; my heart enchanted by what is being seen by my eyes. I don't know if my eyes can fully comprehend what it is I'm seeing. I can feel them...watering, maybe? Or are they just unusually warm? Like, when I haven't blinked in a while. Like when I stand too close to a fire, and the warmth kisses my face and all that accompanies it.

Vexing. Her monochromatic wardrobe, through what, alone, would be considered droll, is vexing. The musky green pants, the black shoes, her black jacket over the army green shirt, her blonde hair in a low bun with a steam of hair freely hanging past her ear meeting her chin. Her subtle, yet palpable earring dangled and completed the dress.

Her outfit yells to me: adventure.

This was the attire a costume designer would create for a character ready to scour the unknowns of a dilapidated temple; earnest and unnerving.

Then she screams:...what? I can't hear her. I can hear the sound disrupting the dissonance between she and I, but it's...muffled? As if I'm standing beyond a padded wall where she shrieks. Not just to be heard, but to be understood. She wants to be perceived rather than heard.

There was one more thing. One final accoutrement that, like a hot blade, would cut through me like butter.

Her eyes. Her hazel-green eyes. The green akin to the moss growing on the most beautiful tree in the most beautiful forest; with a ray of light peaking through the canopy, just as a spotlight glorifies the actor beneath it.

She. Is. Grand. A five letter word that can easily be replaced by a more dramatic, cogent word that only has four. I would use it. I would love to use it if...if it wasn't following another word composed of ten letters. Ten deathly letters.

Unrequited. Just writing the word brings an abhorrent taste to my mouth. Yet it still doesn't fit. Or at least, that's what she wants me to think it doesn't.

What she fails to realize is that people are books.

Their author always ambiguous due to the many aliases spread here and far; he is many and also none. He is neither a collective nor a singular man or entity: he is. Simply put. He--it--just is.

Their acts being transcribed into pages, the words sprawled across every inch of their body, culminating in what they call "themselves." And I, like a secluded scholar eager to embrace every word, am an avid reader.

You say one thing then mean another, oh vile temptress. Every locution that escapes the confines of those soft lips come out as entendres. You never mean one thing. There is always a difference between what is said and what is meant, and I have learned to find that agonizing distinction.

I hope you know what you've done. I pray that you know the depths of which I am struggling to flee from. You were what made me soar, then in lieu of that incompetent boy with wax wings, I came crashing down to the earth. Far below the surface and deep into a watery abyss. I hope you feel the weight constricting your lungs, tugging at your glorious entirety and pushing you deep into this bottomless grave I call home.

Hopes mean nothing, however. Without motivation they are nothing. But what is motivation when it is all for naught? What is motivation when the actions prove to be futile?

A lingering thought that surrounds the heart like smog. And energy put into performing these infertile actions are results of ignorance; thickening the smog.

Which is why I gave up.

Yes, I gave up, and nothing will replace my muse.

Regardless what I shovel into myself to try to fill the hole that is everything I am.

But I must give it up. For her comfortability, and for my sanity. I know pain is temporary, but death is permanent and these thoughts are killing me.

So it is, so it shall be.