There are no words quite suitable to describe the emotions that course through my being daily. I could liken some to a sinking…but, really, without a bottom to sink to. Sort of like falling through the black hole, but with the sinking sensation. I could liken some to the feeling of nothingness. Like feeling it there and reaching for it, only to end up grasping at a shadow of something that never existed. It’s like cotton, I know it is soft and nice, I can almost feel it, but it is not really there, and I have actually never felt it before, so truly, this feeling is like nothing, and it is nothing.
I could liken some to a thick, but invisible smoke; choking and choking out of me life and will. But no one sees it, not even me. It is like being haunted by the very air you breathe. Being haunted by an airy spirit in a windy field. I could liken some to a dark cloud. Sad and depressing, but such beautiful death. Shiny silver pain, with some dusty black anguish, and some sooth in the form of my tears. A pretty type of misery. A truly enchanting sorrow, keeping me glued and dependent on the bright shiny knife, piercing into my skin.
I could liken some to a dream, no matter how fast I run, I never seem to be able to get away. I feel the fear like bile rising in my throat. I know I should be bold, and face this like a man. But my skin is made of wax, and unrepentant and relentless is this fire I have been cast into. I could liken it to a promise, the one yet unfulfilled by that scornful lover. The cast away child, who was wanted by no one, and wanted no one. A spirit so free, yet so caged by an oppressor as valid as nothing.
I could liken some to a bird, with wings of iron and steel. Such strength, built for the worst of it all, yet my maddening composition will tear me apart, and cause my existence as we know it to fall into a cycle of nothingness. It till fuel me, and make me tough, but it is driving me mad with pain and hurt, and all this anger that lies restless in me. I could liken some to a child, with a gift to heal but a heart worth dust. It will make me great, and build me into this fortress, but hear me again, I am mad, and being driven mad by the ache that is permanently present in my chest. I will walk out of it a stronger man, but my mind is damaged, and begging to be put out of its misery.
These angry thoughts, these warring feelings; I am bursting with life and death. I am overjoyed, yet overcome by the sorrow that is in me. I am rejoicing, yet mournful, for what it is that is in me. Again, do you not hear my plea? My desperate cries to be saved and sane? I could liken some to doom and death, to joy and life. I am bursting with life and death.
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