There are nights like these
Where I get so lonely that I can’t sleep
So I spend my dreams out here by the street
Or in the damp grass beneath the trees
Looking for something I’ll never see.
But it feels so warm in these memories,
I don’t ever want to leave.
Like marble carved and cracked into seams
The statue finds in place in me
Though I should never rest like stone.
I am just a shadow bound below
Damned to spin yet never to go
Anywhere that light may be.
This may be just an open field
But you should see the people here:
Their joy’s so loud it almost sounds near.
And these feelings fall like scrawling leaves
I just can’t tell if it’s them or me
Who’s stuck in this ink.
Am I mad? Has something in me lost its hold and I’m now spiraling into a decay merely North-Northwest of my life? I suppose its fit for one so lost in himself that he cannot attend what his flesh may. My heart protests nearly every effort to stand, yet my conscience knows all too well of Melancholy’s fallacy. I have no reason to feel this way, or to doubt myself with such intensity, yet the aches persist. I’m becoming more detached, and it’s not even intentional. Perhaps we hold this innate desire to rue in self-pity and pessimism? I sure revel in it. My rationality wants to secure myself that I can become something, and that these worries are but frivolous contemplation of neurosis. However, I know better than to accept my own authority…I’ve been rousing that rebellion my whole life. It’s at times like these that I wish I could hear you speak, perhaps then I’d escape this quicksand of a feeling. Then again, in my shoes, could you keep your head afloat? What of I to you? I could just as well lull myself in clothing anchored to the sinking blue. But avast ye digression! Who am I to blame if my doubts prevail (for as a poison, I’ve known them well; quicksilver lacks fervor in such comparisons!) and I make it no further than the front door? I suspect my murder follows me into the mirror…
My endless, unrelated, unconscious, and at times unrelenting absurdity compelled itself to formulate such a future. No matter what the base may be raised to, the line will eventually meet a point, and all else behind led to it. Then this, itself, can be a battle yet won. (Determinism sits in my stomach with about as much comfort as father’s discovery of unwrapped condoms in his daughter’s shower) Yet I know the target of this arrow has distance to cover. I destine myself to change this world, to impact it, yet I bite my own ankle. Thus, this battle in my head, its something I have anticipated—begged. A quarrel so rich and challenging that I may stay entertained a while longer.
And all blows aside, I’m still intrigued: am I crazy? Have I lost sight of what they see and what I act? I search the ruins of discourse and only find frustration in loneliness. Though, not by eradication do the fields turn hallow, but by a pestilent laziness. Is that asking to much? Is it beyond reason to wish for passion and commitment in progressing modes of knowledge? Aye, and what an ass am I to swim such rivers of pedantry to be angered by such a sight! To hark at a void of wasted potential, thinking that I’m fit enough to escape it. But does that secure my insanity? Surely, in a blind world, the man with capable eyes is anything but sane..but should I be ever so lucky? Nay. I bleed no less than the man next to me, but why must I feel the way I do? It is as if I desire impossibilities, and double the heart-ache for being so naive. Alas! I forgot! You! I’m certain that you’ve seen, haven’t you? Perhaps we are not blind, and perhaps there is hope. Despondency held it’s own in the keeping of demise of that plane. But if you are able, this does not qualify myself. I can only indulge in faith towards in a mirror, hoping that any precedent alone can eventually flutter to us all.
In conclusion, what restraints have these jackets to my mind? And of the horror that defeats the rest? None. Perhaps another day I can best myself further, and continue to excel, but where would I be without moments like these? Surely, the world needs gadflies. In simpler words: What is sweet with out any sense sour? Naught.
I find myself so utterly indifferent sometimes, so apathetic at instances that it is utterly pathetic. I have every thing I could need, stability, honor, strands of respect, potential, yet I’m discontent. I think I’ve finally understood why, too. You've felt this way before, haven't you? I remember but a year ago, how strong I was this day. I had centered myself, and brought myself strength by my own accord. It seems, however, that the year itself diverted my attention. More and more, I digressed from what kept me true, from what kept me actually stable. It was as if I’ve been running from a reflection in light’s opposition. I let “life” get in the way, and fell into a plane besides reality—but no longer shall I be found meddling in such affairs. I mean, honestly, hasn’t this carefully structured “life” ever bored you? We’re a civilization without Gadflies, and nothing to test the ramparts. I don’t believe I shall remain with the mundane. I should set out on my fascination with the absurdity of the world, and the interesting nature of individuals. Among the listless crowds, there is bound to be an opportunity to find me, and an opportunity for you to find you. I mean, a refined reality and mind is nothing more than a mirror to the other—it is what we need, what we crave. And such is understood, and admired. What is there to do one found but enjoy what there is to revel in, however? To exist, to explore, and anything else more is just trivial. There is no end other than death; there is always a rock to push up a hill. So even at times like this, I suppose I should have a degree of happiness. It’s like a wise man once said, regarding melancholy: “Enjoy it, while you can.” It’s never struct more truth, really. Everything is beautiful—especially the decline. Farewell, and enjoy your night, for me?