It’s dark. It’s still.
The air around me has a breathless quality to it, only intermittently broken by
the sounds that stir the heart.
Soft, gentle melodies.
Memories of whispered nothings. My own choking sobs.
You see, I have
retreated to my shell.
Alone, surrounded with
worn recollections of a brief life. The past has never been deader. Basking in
the flimsy warmth of its flickering light, I stand now with its smoke curling
around my being, the ash dusting my feet.
I chose to burn the
past myself. And I stand; singed and charred, unable to escape the
ramifications of the dependency I had so willingly embraced.
Who am I then, you may
ask? Here, I do not take any form, portray no role I would otherwise be
carrying in your realm. I’m simply a living, breathing individual, acutely
aware of my mortality, my limitations – aware of the bitter truth that even if
I sever all ties, others continue to bind me.
Is it pain that you
see etched into my being?
I laugh. It is both
mocking and rejoicing, intertwining bliss and melancholy. And I laugh – at you,
at myself, at the entire cosmos.
I have withdrawn and
yet I’m still here. I both loathe and crave your presence. Isn’t life a
beautiful paradox? To live while dying, to love with fear, to trust and yet be
unsure?
So bring me back.
Cajole me to return. For I long to do so, despite knowing that all I want is to
be left alone.
But that is what life
is. Who am I to say otherwise?
..................................................................................................................................................................
Ramblings of Boring Romanticism will be continued next time - you think I'll give up so easily on that, eh?
