Habits consume us just like those wild spreading vines steal the light from a north facing wall. They drain the short remains of life we still present, a worn out life of failed tries and faulty expectations. Our obsessive patterns, they always lead to the same old places where we will, hopefully, vislumbre the same old scenarios, so we can cause ourselves the same old feeling, once again, until our tired body collapses from all the pain we repetitively inflict on ourselves, naïvely.
But that opportunity is long gone by now, there’s no returning to what once was nothing and now, less than nothing is; it’s only you and your nothingness, but still you force yourself a little more into those woods. Justifying it as an inner need to relax and feel at home in the wild, you go there to breathe, every morning, before the day wakes up. Maybe you feel like you may still be living last night’s dream, so you take the same premeditated path to see if now, this lucid experience, finally takes you where you really wanted to go in your sleep.
Perhaps someday you’ll find her, herself lost just as you’ve been for so long now. You believe in that possibility and you’re so dumb for finding motivation on such an impossibility, wronging your heart with foolish promises of joy still to come, joy you think will magically run towards you, coming from this nebulous bosk. Feeding your enslaved character with an empty dish, expecting it to find substance where there is nothing but the sharp autumn breeze and some fallen pine needles, now covering the road side like bandages masking open wounds, left unstitched, meant to never heal and later kill you with a burning fever, caused by this long-lasting infection, already suffusing underneath your apparently pale, untouched flesh.
You gaze the ferruginous puddles of stagnant water and wonder if that’s how your heart looks like now. Dormant and putrified, functioning only as breeding site for plague and other scourging forms of live. Up you see the webbed up canopies, laying their tainted shadows upon you, offering coverage from the dribbling rain by extending their blanket of indifference against your soaking suppressed corpse. You become suspicious regarding the person you’re slowly becoming. You can’t define it, for you find nothing substantial inside yourself, not a single emotion passable of description.
Tomorrow, here you’ll be again, wandering and smiling, amazed with the simplistic beauty emanated by the forest. You’re happy and sorry; you smile, it’s the fastest easy fix for your weary eyes, doomed to melt whenever the flashing warmth of memories finds its way to dazzle them; you feel so much yet nothing eases your mind and brings peace to your tight chest.
The sad freedom you achieve by walking alone, it feels so empty but, still, as addictive as your dire will to keep worrying about her. You think you owe her something, as she cultivated contentment in you, for so long, and so you hand her your own sanity, expecting her to pity your well-intentioned soul.
She is bluntly unaware of all this thoughts you forge only to afflict you. She ignores them; you may be inside her but she is surely not sensing your presence. She is love-blind, has always been. Her condition is chronic.
Don’t waste your time painting colorful masterpieces destined to someone who can’t even tell Like from Love.