i haven't been writing for so long that it almost scares me to make indents on the keyboard. it's like pushing a rusted key through a lock and wondering if it will turn. i can't remember anymore if writing has ever been a solace for it seems that regardless of whichever tools of syntax or vocabulary that i put to play, language still falls short and all that i'm left with is the cheapening of my thoughts as my words concretize them.
i realize though, how helpless i am without the permanence of words as i embark upon the new struggle of trying to call up a memory that i discover no longer exists within my psyche. the implication is almost such that that day never existed, as if it didn't make a difference. but it did, didn't it? every breath, every giggle, lays itself down as a slave to a shadowless system of cause and effect and i know that the dusty dark corners of life are out of bounds to me. and really, it amazes me sometimes, the way i embark on meaningless soliloquys in attempts to make sense of my existence or part there of, when all i'm conversing with is an invisible audience with the help of a secondhand medium, carrying on this one-person show of a vain struggle. solipsism says it all, but i know the truth is that no one understands me. read the grammar, grapple with the thought behind the words, but at the end of the day, it all comes to naught.
they say that love is something that is meant to bring out the best in you. if only the owner of that quote knew how myopic he or she was. but that's just the point, isn't it? i can't even take ownership for my words. either they disappear into the vague unknown or they persevere on independent of me. only it wouldn't matter very much, would it. these discourses on discourses, words on words. still, pray tell me how love can be confined to a mere self-enhancement when it encompasses and invades,
evades, every possible sphere of this world. to love to the extent that one conceives that one's heart has the right to claim ownership of another being such that one feels that no one has the right to take away the life of one's beloved, no one, except one's self. that death can only be justified should the lover wish it upon the loved, as if the responsiblity of a life depended on someone else other than its owner. but that's just another twisted set of morals, and i apologize for even having thought about it. still nothing can ever be viewed through lenses made to enhance vision of any sort, because the greatest distortion comes out of making an effort beyond your ability to achieve focus. and at the end of the day, what we thought to have been a home built on a foundation of bricks is nothing but a sandcastle by the sea.
life ought not to have been this way. sometimes i sit on the parquet floor while the rest of the world is at a standstill and listen to the irish lilt of the radio stream, and i think, no. life ought not to have been this way. but it is. and i weep a tear silently for younger hearts who will one day tread the path that i'm treading, knowing that when that happens, it will hurt, and there will never be a plaster big enough.
sometimes, all i long for is a patch of blue when the rain falls from concrete coloured skies.
