The fight has become as unbearable as it would be stranded in the middle of an arctic storm. No food, no shelter, no warmth, no comfort. The worrisome thoughts are as uncontainable as the still freezing wind. The light that comes with morning brings no relief. It only illuminates the broken sorrow of the past nights’ failures. As life clings to the remaining skeleton of a human who once was, and the numbing chill permeates it’s bones, the final breathes are shallowly inhaled and exhaled as the pressure of the cold bears down upon the chest with inexorable force. This force is death himself incarnate, standing above the sunken face of his victim. As the minutes turn to seconds for the life of this unfortunate soul and the fight comes to an end so do the thoughts, the pain, the fear and the sorrow. All that is left is a welling sense of peace and harmony at last. Come death as it may, to bring the lost and broken the truth that was insurmountable in their lifetime. The fight is beyond us, just as immortality is. Life brings it’s troubles and values but the final moments are the ones we look to for our bests. In humanities heart we can believe that “though we walk through the valley of the shadows of death, we may fear no evil.” Psalm 23:4 and that our fighting the storms we face daily to come to a new light beyond that valley, is worth the struggling.
You left me when I needed you most. Don’t just think you can come back. I’m hurt. Not stupid. Fuck face.
Everything has become so surreal. I’m unsure of myself, as i’ve always been, but here and now its different. Everyone around me is growing and changing for the better. I only feel helpless and insignificantly drowning in my own thoughts of suicide, self harm, and sadness. My escape has become a couple rounds of shots, sex without love, and questioning my own moral compass by taking risky drugs. Strangers are more friends than those whom I love. Only because I cannot bring myself to admit to them the errors in which I have been living. My thoughts are my worst enemies, leading me to believe I might be the devil himself incarnate. But if that were the case, I wouldn’t be in church every sunday morning, would I? When I stand in front of the altar and bow my head in an empty prayer I still feel the warmth inside my stomach that keeps me believing in the very staple imprinted in my mind from youth till now. How could I abandon the one sanctuary I have ever had? The only stable part of my life is the assurance of mass on Sundays. I may be mistaken in my current path, I may be filled with an eros of passion unabated, but there must be more, I want more, don’t I? Question is, better, do I deserve more? I allow myself to be this weary itinerant for love and then become this passively aggressive fool. I know I’m wrong. I can still believe. And then, I’m here. A lost ghost, or I might be, one day. Soon.
