it feels weird sometimes, being present in a way you know you don't deserve to be.
night falls and comes with it thoughts filled with anxiety and a restless, relentless, never ending feeling of empty doom. always waiting for the other shoe to fall.
when all catharsis is removed from you, you realize how completely fortunate you've been in life. and then the guilt. the guilt of ever feeling sad, the guilt of immersing in self pity, when really, what did you have to be miserable about?
it stalks your mind again then. it comes in softly, like a cold velvet drape slowly pulling you under.
Bad child, bad child, bad child.
whispers, whispers.
How dare you complain?
A crushing feeling, sour as crushed lemons, slowly, slowly, all you hear is the dark whispering. they're right. of course they are. they're you. they speak for you.
Wallow in your pity, when you were given something to live. How easy you've had it.
Stop, stop, please stop.
Fragility is assumed. Fear is illusory. You fear what you desire the most.
There's music and its loud, my thoughts are clamoring, the nightly masquerade has reached its opus. What's that shadow that lurks there?
The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born, must first destroy a world. A coward that fears living is unworthy of such feats.
[Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for You are with me. Your staff and Thy rod, they comfort me...]
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The bird line's from Herman Hesse's Demian. And the last two lines from a source I've long forgotten, but reads like a Bible verse, but your guess is as good as mine on that one.
YOU ARE READING
Almond Blossoms
PoetryNamed after my favorite Van Gogh painting, I try to give some feelings words.
