Sorrow

A prison. I see its walls. Tall, gray, blanketed in snow. Lines barely etched into the surface, could they be scratches? Or perhaps no more than marks left by the passage of time? Much unbelieving to realize that all those happenings, those lights, views, passions – they were two months ago. Time would suppress everything, indeed, and we’re but victims. It gives, and it takes so much. Oh, lines come in three. Scratching, they must be. Stray cats have become common for these days, much to evade the cold of winter. Thieves, loners, survivors among the few that struggled to find a state of peace. So are we, pressed to find a shelter before a swarm of blizzard would devour the wretched soul. Every being is equal, and the way is harsh – rugged, unforgiving.

Is that suggested or merely a speculation that a prison would again approach the senses of familiarity? The same path, the same emotion, where the soul was lost and found all two years before. Shortly after I was searching for the vibes of winter. What is it? Snow is nothing more than white ash of mundanity. Yet, snow leaves trails, and trails form into fogs. Every so often my sights are blocked by these – white, unclear, filled with suspicion and a taste of curiosity. They drive me to walk, to explore, to see what is lurking behind all those mysteries, so much that warmth is felt amidst the deadliest season of all time. And now, even such simplest happiness is no longer found. Nothing is left, except for a thin stretch of the sun’s lifeless glow. I was once full of enthusiasm.

Not when you’ve dreamed of the tallest of buildings, the grandest of cities. Not when you’ve imagined of the misted of mountains, the uncharted of seas. May they be sad and melancholic; may they be joyful and delighted. Perhaps they were all along the crafts of your mind, or perhaps they were figments of your own imagination? But tell me, that you’ve once tasted the salty sea breeze blowing on a warm summer's day, that you’ve ever touched the bitter chill at the peak of a mountain. Alone in dreams, the soul felt cozy; lost in thoughts, the soul stayed still. All yet to wake up finding a prolonged grief of deep loss – in a world where sins are never forgiven, where goodness may not be appraised.

But for how long can you ever dream? Or to keep that falsely assumption as the defense of your entrenched guilt? When you lay off for the aspire of meditation, you simultaneously accept the mournful truth that every culmination of relief is followed by a collapse in emotion. You wake up in a bottomless pit, known by the name of fear and horror. The sky is far, and the light is dim. However you strive to climb, to rid yourself from such deepened sorrow, to clutch that everlasting desire of settling in dreams – here you ultimately have to keep, to maintain even the worst states of survival. To keep an image no matter how shattered its inner has last. After all those ups and downs, after all your thoughts have drawn and conclusion, you will realize the very, unavoidable truth. There is no escape.

For that I’ve sacrificed too much. I’d left soul indefinitely burning in hell. I’d let my body damned in a sunless space. I wake up every day to speak against mirrors, where I see a figure becoming filled with misgiving as days pass by. I stand in front of shadows mourning failures out from nowhere. I blame my mistakes; I condemn my decency as a signature of those that have passed. Is this a world more desired than the paradise of dreams? Is this a world where tears are no longer the expression of my feelings? Is this a world where sadness no longer troubles the thousands for so long and so deeply?

Are you too wise to be deemed by your sacrifice? Are you too wise to build such an imaginary tower full of threads of sophistication, placing yourself in the middle of it towards those thousands of convoluted layers? Like a miner you dig in a hole where light is brittle, and the exit is unfound – in the limbo between true and false, the border across honesty and fraud. You’re entrapped. You’ve been entrapped for too long, entrapped by the very creation of your wisdom, who came to be an ever-haunting ghost known by the name of endless apprehension. What is your way? Will you deem a tunnel of darkness the everlasting way you will crawl through? Will you crawl across the mud plains and collapse into a world of filth and sin? You’ve taken the word to the last in this direction. You’ve pledged to accept whatever you face. It’s not because you’re willing to, but simply that there’s no any other way to go. There’s no escape, because the moment you step on the first stair of your way, the ground no longer appears beneath your feet. There’s no such a wide road for decision, and the path only gets narrower until that very conclusion, where you are but the only one who can fit in. You’re the lone one, and it’s not the unpleasing of boredom; it’s the torture of your rest living.

I have spoken.