Not all the stories we write are true but merely a reality we wish to have come true. |
Far from the World Resting on his chest for hours, suddenly time ceases to exist, the wind delicately entering and leaving my exposed soul. It's vast, my soul; it's quiet. I was always a yearner for contentment; I found temporary comfort in the illusion of contentment, which is what keeps me alive now. I have reached so far that I cannot fathom the reality anymore, yet it feels too far from the end. It's so uncanny how it feels. I'm lost now; the comfort is slowly draining me. My mind captures nothing but darkness. The darkness is somehow intimidating; it's pulling me towards it like a magnet. I do not try to fight it but simply allow the darkness to consume me. It wasn't long enough until the only emotion I felt also faded away-acceptance. A breeze it is; my closed eyes hurt, it's bright when I merely open them, it hurts to see the beauty of the bright, and then it is all bright like the dark never existed. A man who has only seen bright days would never believe that there can be an alternative--a lapse in time when there is no when. I see his brown eyes, like the color of comfort. Again, his eyes remind me of spring, when people are the happiest. I see his smile, and now I feel it. I feel the most contempt now. |