Work Text:
My Desolate Mind
What do one call it when one perceives oneself to be vulnerable or inferior? Is it just a case of being insecure or feeling unease when you walk into a room of friends and acquaintances, people smiling at you as if you are bringing the light into the dark? Is it fear of knowing what they really think?
Do they see the truth? All the things in my mind that I can not discard when I walk through this door of my melancholy life? They are all gone. I have lost count of all the ones I have loved that left me behind and returned me into myself. The mask I wear when I put on my powders and rouge, my attire like a costume, the red wine and nimble remarks; the lies, to hide the words I really want to speak. If only I could extrude these weak pieces of myself.
These tired eyes and hollow skin, the deceit of immortality, they remind me of all the places I have been. All the streets I have walked from a rendezvous, loveless and empty. A moment of bliss to extinguish the loneliness.
I feel so far from the people I surround myself with in the hope of feeling something true. I feel like I exist inside my own ghost. When I return home, high on attention and intoxicated with drink, I believe I have gone to sleep in heaven only to wake up in hell.
If I am going to persevere through this momentarily, then I will have to save myself. Consume the opportunities of the present. Live on the hope that a brand-new day arrives tomorrow and bring with it the prospects that I failed to pursue. I have to discover the true love of oneself.
I believe there is so much more I can be.