Life is so beautiful.
Yet people question it.
It lays a veil of enlightenment over our heads.
God, how I wish to enjoy life,
To seek out every bit and truly become passionate.
But so many people are focused on the bigger picture,
It's like no one has time to enjoy the little things.
The tiny details,
The little fragments of emotion,
That confidence, oh God, how I love that.
That aura of knowing what you want,
That stroke of beautiful luck,
I yearn for it.
But something has perturbed my usual inquiries.
I can't feel happiness as I used to, more importantly I don't feel sadness neither.
It's metamorphose into something completely different.
It's fragmented yet I despise it,
I can feel the air it leaves like a rock on Atlas's back.
Forced to carry the weight of whatever it could be whether or not it even feels any relative emotion.
Nights where I cower wondering where it might be next,
So twisted and perverted, too dedicated to the cause of smothering me.
It's like a chamber where you can no longer breathe,
A see through glass where you've already lost all hope.
How can I go out like this?
How can I function like this?
Every seemingly little thread of excitement is cut by those three old hags of fate.
I stare blindly into a future where I cannot see my marble road.
Oh God why?
When will I find my new hermit shell?
When will I carry the fruits of my labor?
When will I stop holding my tongue?
When will I stop questioning every action I make?
I want to rip myself apart just to find what's inside my crevices.
For where is my life?
Across the shore forever out of reach?
Or lost at sea joining the sirens calling out for me?
Perhaps I must collect it like that of a selkie,
And hold it under chains, trapped like a banshee.
Forever wailing out for help,
To an audience that no longer enjoy opera.
I hate the way it looks like me,
A spitting image that I wish to utterly destroy.
I wrote this is a very dark time of my life, and I treat it much like a magnum opus.