Confusion strikes people who feel something so plainly it can’t be mistaken for anything else. It’s so evident that given reality frustrates our chances of dodging it, what we fear because we felt its embrace once or twice or maybe never, but yet believed in the illusion of its cordiality.
There are many sides to the notion of feeling, room for misinterpretations, happy ones and others simply estranging. We pave our journey with a blacktop of rusting long gone died down reminiscences of love and urge, a coagulate all but ours. Living by the shade of this dependence isn’t a crime but can instead denote suicidal intent. We come as an own being, flawed but naturally complete, any need for extrinsic fulfillment is a mere squeal of softness, and emotion and heart that ultimately exists and condemns serene survival. A good curse.
It is possible to learn from these events, aches that heal in long-term, but there’s no cure for a mind struggling to reach meaning, unceasing attempts to grasp and unwrap world’s sweetness, life’s purpose to a romantic’s eyes. This wheel is ever moving and how many of us have lost life and what for? To take that time of nullity and soar inside it, and justify this absence of spite as something ordinarily baked from disappointed, grief. Hopeless we are found hiding from what we fear could come and chew our lastingly quivering skin. Moist air we see condensing for we’re so cold and yet, afraid we cry noticing how thick and frozen are the tall walls we slowly erected, our voluntary grave, a silent lair for us untended.
Gladly, we creative people have this way of mutating in a bouncing manner, we follow a frequency undefinable to some. Intricacy primes within a mind that likes introspection. Exquisite taste, sadistic individuals perhaps, but insanity will forever be lover’s favorite and enlightening condition. How madly can we love? That’s a question no one can answer, not even us, neither the beloved for their gloom is the vivid reflection of how they seem infinite to us. That we can ultimately be what we want but should we be it? Should we be as in love as we want or just as much as they let us be? Just so it’s not all heart reigned by a matter that stop being grey to give place to a folly spoiling and clearly over brimming sudation of this lonely conscience of ours.