I don't know where I am leading to. The sentences do not make sense anymore. It is not like I am trapped but I also do not feel free anymore. Something is very heavy in the head and I do not know what is that. The feeling is strange, very strange and I have no idea how to address that. I do not like to engage in conversations, nor I like being social. It is like people are there but they do not matter anymore. I wasn't this unlively before, something really broke within me and I am all done.
I do not know where this road leads me to, the one, I have chosen for, but I didn't have any options, to any other, either. It seems like a long tiring journey, that has no specific halts and I am already tired to see this in front of me. Just feel to break down myself on the barren lands, where the cries are unheard and screams are echoed, I feel suffocated in this chaos and I feel lost in the crowd. It is a heavy feeling and words are ain't even able to justify the way I feel anymore.
I have seen the corpses with regrets and relics of last wishes, They smell like the fallen dry leaves in autumn ,Their epitaphs are testaments of dissatisfaction and self contempt, Their grave is a cradle for eternal sleep. Under the tree he perches while sipping his favorite rose tea while brooding over the reckless nights and gloomy days filled with dark thoughts and transient joy.
A plethora of darkness befalls on people when death approaches them on their doors, they live their whole life in havoc and delusion, Ignoring the inevitable, and fasten all their hopes on the capricious and ruptured pennons of time
Detachment and separation is what death teaches. The insentient are no longer bound to the mortal threads and are disconnected from every relationship. They lay there unchaperoned with nothing but dust and soil on their bodies, with no bonds to withhold and no place to return.
Some night, I'll pen those memories still spry; and yet old, residing within incomplete stories and phrases untold. Beside the empty photo-frame, in that half-burnt memoir; I won't cite your name, yet divulge every last scar.
From the first love letter that is known to only a few, to that yellow sweater that still smells like you; Rotting inside the cupboard, concealed under the cigarette pile; I'll dig out every last feather of that dead bird and caress them like a vile.
With that withered pen rusting down in one of my drawers, I will write a eulogy, again; but this time to every memory of yours. For the sake of those vows in my reveries, I'll embroider each page with ichor splashes; Then I'll pen those memories and burn them down to ashes.