I
try to avoid it, this melancholic apathy—this listless address: to coddle joys;
to smile loudly; to fluctuate my voice; this thing with hiding, even from self,
while crawling through irritations; that radar pendulum, that silent sadness,
that procrastination. I boil water—for instant coffee, a bit intrigued with
creamer. I grab a holy book, scribble some notes, and blank into sadness; this
felt dejection, while still afloat, weary of intrusions: It’s my sadness, my
anguish—I’m mother’s son; this furious woman, at woes for kindness, afflicted
through adolescence; to plan excuses, for raunchy behavior, sailing seas of
sorrows. I type a line, feeling lethargic, as coming alive through typing; this
silent voice, unheard at reasons, to wrestle this sightless origin: this
phantom of passions; while crying deepness; afforded one more reason to mourn.
It should be different—this well of rain, this canoe and paddle my desert;
where beauty heals, in arts to souls, this permanent texture; but thoughts are
fleeting, unless for seasoned, running from silent mirrors; that vocal image,
as perceived vaguely, cutting through noise-waves; to die this heart, while
singing such praise, this inner indoctrination; to glow with fury, while seated
in lowness, this music of sad chimes. I shower and pause, and stare and smoke,
while wondering of friends: They see but increments, as aloof to affecting
harmony—this portrait filled with energies: that casual stance; that mirrored
smile; those ways to arts to avoid intrusions. I conjure illusion—as to absorb
feelings, while lost in daydreams. I soon return, bedded in unlocked truths, if
ways are measured cautiously; this fever of sadness, while familiar with highs,
enchanted by this mixture; this dual feeling, at tug-a-war our souls, soaring
to extremes—or low tides, floating in sadness, not a bit more than enough; this
flat sensation, as writing to see clearly, while engaged at neurons. I recite a
prayer; or meditate a chant; awaiting that vocal feeling; where winds are
beauty, as love is resonance, tiptoeing those silent messages. It becomes
tolerance, while seated in emotions, as shifting at segments. I must explain
it—this subtle tug,—while others are moving rapidly; or maybe not, as overly
charged, dinning at neighboring tables.
Spirits are howling, our rooms are studied, this feeling is intimate; as
nudging silence, while awakening sharply, reaching at prayer-beads. We’ve died often, wrapped in sadness, at
lengths to remember joys: this troubled atmosphere; that shift as familiar; our
inverted intentions; where children laugh, our eyes to water, while seeping
into solace; as accepting fate, this hand by measures, while grieved concerning
tenderness; this space as lethal, where frequencies swarm, at turns to feel
existence; this swing of noise, as this frantic kiss, to wonder of other
souls.
