My time is yet to come
And so life rolls on. As another year dawns, the inevitable shift occurs. As friends so drastic, and dear tread away; taking with them both their comforts and the burdens they instill on contact - not without their own financial and mental problems that are bearing upon my mind constantly. My own changes without resolve running through my mind. Turning away from my own vices one by one, adding new ones by the day. Taking my obsessions for what they are, re-evaluating their worth, and summarily changing myself for better or worse - which depends on when I ponder such things. And yet I feel as if nothing has changed at all - as if I have returned yet again to my younger years. life trends to working in cycles, periods of excess and of dearth, of love and hate, youth and age. I have hit my cycle of decline again it seems. I want no more comfort than solitude, no more peace then those I know. Isolationism and self-torment. Bouts of overwhelming desperation and loneliness without drive to repair them. My own jealous intentions and suspicions are flaring more than ever. I cannot help it, it is as if my mind wants me to be unhappy, and so it may. It happens all of the time, it seems. I will have months of wanting only happiness, then months of wanting only pain. Perhaps it is fitting that I run under the stars of Ares and Aphrodite - for now and forever torn between love and war, darkness and light, happiness and sorrow. Ares guides my hands again, holding me with spear at my throat, and hand at my back urging me into the oblivion.
Yet, even knowing what may become of me, I continue on, blindly following the will placed into my mind until such point I yell to the spirits en mass 'Enough' and take my own path again, tripping over the tightrope and letting myself swing once more.
The only resolve I have is to rekindle my writing. If only to mark days, mediocre events, and bouts of mental anguish and despair to give notice and warning to those that know me. Yes, I have life, but I do not live. I breathe, but my breath is not bated. I love, but my heart strains to beat. The superglue holding the strings of my heart to my chest is failing, and it seems no amount of placation will repair it's egregious wounds. But my plight is but a ruse, hiding within the confines of my own insanity. For I truly have nothing to be anguished or pained by. My life is as normal as anyone elses, yet my mind will make it worse.
Perhaps I am but a slave to my own dramatic plights.
Yet, even knowing what may become of me, I continue on, blindly following the will placed into my mind until such point I yell to the spirits en mass 'Enough' and take my own path again, tripping over the tightrope and letting myself swing once more.
The only resolve I have is to rekindle my writing. If only to mark days, mediocre events, and bouts of mental anguish and despair to give notice and warning to those that know me. Yes, I have life, but I do not live. I breathe, but my breath is not bated. I love, but my heart strains to beat. The superglue holding the strings of my heart to my chest is failing, and it seems no amount of placation will repair it's egregious wounds. But my plight is but a ruse, hiding within the confines of my own insanity. For I truly have nothing to be anguished or pained by. My life is as normal as anyone elses, yet my mind will make it worse.
Perhaps I am but a slave to my own dramatic plights.