Hey there. I seriously have to find a name for my readers other than…well…readers. The Lees. Never-mind.
Anyways, today I wrote a piece. Yes, it was a sad piece indeed. This post brings light onto the situation of many, few ever talk about it though. I do know it’s dark. I am aware almost everything I write is not exactly optimistic, yet it is what it is.
“I am aware it’s aggressiveNF, Therapy Session.
I am not here for acceptance”
I’m not a depressed writer who can’t see the good in front of them. I’m not even depressed, nor do I have jaded memories and scars. I do see the good, and I am grateful. I just choose not to write about it. This is my passion. This is what I like writing about. And I’m not changing. All of you have been very supportive so far, and I really appreciate it!
Don’t worry, this piece has a sequel =).
He sauntered alongside the side of the road, ignoring the offer of safety of the pavement. Head bent down, his eyes downcast, he looked at the jagged street, a bit broken from the constant whizzing of cars past it. He gazed up, hopped on the pavement and walked ever so slowly. What’s the point of being in a hurry when you have no destination? His emerald eyes flit everywhere, searching a stranger’s demeanor. Each individual had a story behind their manner, their clothes, and their expressions. Did they have a purposeful pace, leading them to somewhere special, altering their lives forever? Or were they like him…astray, lost in the midst of chaos?
Hours passed by, the beauty of the sunset had vanished,
cloaking the world in endless layers and shades of grey and black. Today, the
moon had not appeared. Or maybe his eyes do not reflect the light anymore.
Dullness is a plague, indeed he believed.
Silence rung through his ears, it is not a comfort so far.
Solitude was his gift, his curse, his legacy like so many
Him, he was the chosen one, he embraced so.
He no longer hears, nor does he taste.
He sees through the mist, the joy, the sorrow.
He sees through the guilt, the pain and what follows.
He sees through the
smiles, whether fake or not.
He sees through it all, but he does not feel.
His story is of faceless characters woven together.
His story is of villains who ploy with each other.
His story is of words
of which they were forged into swords.
His story is of tactless seemingly pointless invisible gore.
His story is not ending, nor is it beginning.
Perhaps he has no story at all,
For he does not know what anything is anymore.