If there is a time for the big comedown to happen, this time is not the best of them.
Yet I ask myself whether I am content with my life, and ironicaly I can say I am. However, explain to me why I find myself too hostile, and times of sorrow become part of one’s routine far too often. Why do my mother’s screams feel directed to the dead centre of my body, even though she no longer looms over my bespeckled head? I stand on top of a mound of self accomplishment, and yet I find myself kicking the ground before me. I look too far ahead and I am hopelessly distraught. My heart feels like a chamber for some heavy lead that has replaced the functuality of the heart and has left it to the purpose of being deadweight. Constantly, on the hour, the tick and tock of a cry that I have yet to calm down sits inside of me. A meloncholia of the darkest sort, and I have begged for it to come away until a later time. But when do the tides of nature ever speak to the poor famrer who weeps at its shore? It seems that progression in age only summons up another and another worry that would make a poor man’s scientist look for a deity. Yet I have none, for I lost faith for the pendulum in the reminants of a childhood long ago. Is it of nature for the poet to be surrounded in circumstances of gratitiude and still find it plausible to stand at the edge of a well whose bottom has been reached by many other writers, in search of finding someone who can cause permanent sunshine of the mind. Or perhaps they were caught in their reflection, and threw themselves inside with vainful disposition and dying aspiration? Until that answer surfaces, I stare into a space where my teardrops become grand submarines in search of a purpose in their journey. Surely they have gone farther than their conjurer, at the stake for their own accusation of treason of the soul.