my mind is as empty as a chasm and i am told that the best things come in the process. like how rain makes flowers grow. so i write at three in the morning with paint-stained fingers clutching a pen and eyelids slowly slipping down ─ even though my thoughts are scuttling around like leaves in an eyeless wind and surely, nothing good can be produced from these ramblings;
honesty is never pretty and the devil is feeding himself off my insecurities. i am a meek ghost of my true self; i stumble in the wake of others' footsteps, always looking back as i go. how does one walk their own path, when one is but a shadow? what stars hide in the dark orbs of my eyes ─ but they hide behind a veil of fear, and the night remains empty.
are words big enough to contain the universe resting between my ribs? can one's self be adequately depicted in spiky handwriting and sentences intertwining together on paper; i wash myself in moments like gold leaves but light cannot chase away the darkness completely. i think a storm is coming; thoughts dance anxiously in the increasing wind of expectations and homework and coffee sips and loneliness and ─
my feet are anchored to the past, and as i take a step foward i drag all the previous years of my life with me. but what do i hold on to if not the past? what will remain of me if i cut away my memories? i stand in shallow water, afraid of venturing deeper into this vast ocean we call life. for i cannot swim, and the burdens i carry on my shoulders will sink me to the bottom. if love is a surfboard, i will end up losing it in the waves. i watch others from the shore, chains around my ankles, heart sealed up.
nebula colours spill out of my mouth and mix into black. but they say black is not a colour, it is not light. then these words, what importance do they hold? what thoughts that stem from the shadow, will survive in a world where only light catches the eye?
but when dawn cracks open over the faraway mountains, and the yolk of the sun will melt into the sky, perhaps i will forget i have written these sentences; perhaps i will be able to hope again, for the bloom of flowers growing in the shade, for beauty to arise from polluted soil ─ and for the abyss of what used to be sorrow, to be filled with light of the timid morning.
perhaps.
3.12.17
