Life
Some busy being born and some are busy dying, some dig
through their fragile souls for hope and some dwell upon the pains of
yesterday, some try to love and many fail to maneuver around hate, falling into
its deceptive claws, some dance to smile, and others watch as the dancers soar
among the clouds. All come undone and all bring me to my knees, all are
obsessed and all are indifferent and they all are one and many perfect circles
entwined to sketch the vague and blurry haze of a man that I am. All are me and
I am all endlessly in vain. Death to me is life and life isn’t but the road to
death. I long to long to live and in times I lose the will to long and want.
My
own perplexity amazes me, I was wired to obey without understanding and when
the stubbornness within me rose above all and I made it a purpose to understand
and I understood the world as it is for an infinite complexion of meaningless
endeavors of pain and desire running round and round tangling my thoughts in
knots of insecurity. The irony is when I came to understand all that was left
was a blank, I floated within the delirium of my mind. The spell of harmony I
try to cast upon myself but it fails, I pick up the notes from the grounds of
empathy and all I can do is visit a world where life is possible, a world where
I can speak and be heard, by none but myself but in that world myself is
enough, my heart is satisfying. For the world in which all is in harmony is the
world of song, the vast embrace of Melancholia that puts me at ease with my own
dreariness and my self inflicted agony. Still i be forever enchanted with delusion.
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