Melancholia
As Pablo Neruda once said,” Tonight I can write the saddest lines”, this thought resonates with my simpleton mind. I was about to type “heart” but that guy is done for the day. Well, I miss her. That’s it. You can stop reading now and I can stop writing now, but we’re both sinners- while I bathe in melancholic vanity, you are just bored. So, I’ll write and you’ll read.
Tonight, the weather is windy and the sky is pale and I am stuck; stuck in this wardrobe of guilt, shame and pain. There is no great philosophical rationale for my sadness. The simple fact is that I miss the presence of someone, who once, was. It’s almost as if she were never born. My friend had once remarked that dying makes one of the same stature as they were before they were born. But, I disagree. How does this theory justify the maze of memories in my head. So, yes, human life is not meaningless. Her life was not pointless. She was.
Do I want to erase you from my memories? Maybe I do. I can never be sure. My pain knows no bounds and you’re no here and my universe lies on the floor, shattered in little infinities. I cannot dare to pick those pieces up, because I am scared and crouched timidly, in an attempt to cover my senses, because the darkness is too blinding and my bones ache. I pray for a bullet and simultaneously run away from it.
Your memories come to me in my dreams and even when I am sitting consciously. The picturesque kaleidoscope of the moments we spent keep stealing me from this world. I do not like the reality where you don’t breathe alongside me. What if I could rip apart my veins to get you back? Maybe I could. But, you will still not be here.
Do you call me out from the void? Do you feel the purgatory like I do? Do you see me sin? Do you see me disappoint you? Do you see anything? Or am I just as illogical and hopeless as the God-men and shamans I’ve ridiculed. Does the void shout back when it listens to my shrieks and screams? Do you even care when I kill myself with drugs and needles? Do you cry when my pain gets unbearable? Do you get worried when I plan to run into a raging truck? Don’t you want to come hold me when I punch the mirror because my own face makes me want to kill myself? The funny thing is that I’m so disillusioned that I am conversing with my own subconscious.
I will not cite the philosophical doctrines borne out of psychological cognitions; I will not complain about the mortality of human spirit; I will not talk about the desire to sleep and not wake up at all; I will only say what Vincent Van Gogh wrote in his final letter to his brother , “The Sadness will last Forever.”
