I will not take the time to know you, for I am discovering the deepest long lost things. It will take more than my life to discover its most precious pieces, and "I have wasted so much time" …I feel a calm whisper of hope that shall endure me still. The spastic yearn has dulled now, it will soon content itself to a pattering, barely light enough to consider. Yet, I shall pay no attention…pathetic still. My, for what I am assuming are pending, sorrows have escaped, even myself, and I cannot reason as to where they have gone. I do not wish them away so fast, for I love the wallow of pain and suffering. The existence of breathe, tears, and inconsequential fear that shall eventually be left and forgotten are all that confide in my heart. Perhaps there is nothing left to suffer, no new pain to disillusion the distinctions among men. I am left to understand that I was not made for this world. I am not. The life…described as heathen or whore. Meant only for the blasted dispassionate sickening creatures which consider themselves alive. To be, they have not. And sincerely speaking, I only wish to set myself apart then, from any such heathen.
The constant chatter in my head will not stop. It continues much past night, even still, while I sleep. It will not relent to a dream, only once since. It was a brilliant dream. The numbness subsides, I have the most magical, even perhaps surreal, I do love that word (of which I was forbade to speak these last three years, I did not say it once, even when it perfectly fit the most "surreal" situation, I could not, and eventually forgot that it was ever a chosen spoken word of mine). I find a book filled with precious nonsense that I was not allowed to have, I am an enlightened and released child. Young again, but oh so dreadfully aged, it was given to me by a lovely laurel.
I had been satisfied still, with the altruistic idea of a dying heart. It could have been possibly, quite perfectly staged. Still, it has passed, and a brightness, which I remember has long since been lost, has flooded my very soul. I am shamed to consider the illusions which I held so dear. They were my breath, how ever did I breathe…
I am left with the mundane things in all of their glory. These I love. I always have, I do not care for any (left un-described) such intrigues. They are nothing but imaginary fascinations of which I can easily create, but much more so, perfect. The ideas in my heart, the lasting day dreams that I conjure, are much more to my satisfaction.. I cannot imagine them true, I know I cannot, and for this, and yet, they are much closer, much dearer a reality than all things worldly. I will satisfy to dream of a conversation, I smile…and a dearness, that cannot be repeated in words that I carry the ability to express, is returned. This, simply is my dream. Ha!