A Compass Rose

Oh compass rose, tell me which direction I may go.

Oh compass rose, guide me to where I should go.

Oh compass rose, be my oars in this violent sea.

Oh compass rose, point to a direction, any direction…

for I have lost myself.

I fear for my life, for the pain of love has shed off one layer too many. I struggle to see the light that might guide me on a righteous path. What has happened to lead me into this eternal sorrow, an endless abyss of darkened spirits and rotten hopes? I tap on, the fluorescence bounces off my pupils with mechanistic diligence, yet my soul is full, not yet emptied. Stray strands of silver needles and wool lie idle on my table, as if they are pleading me to stop my grueling insanity.

I have no more feelings, for I have exhausted them all on her.

Even what remains hidden from my sight are the nine balls of fresh wool, yet to be used. As I tilt my head I catch a glimpse of the two bamboo needles sitting indolently, tips so dull yet inflicting infinite inundations of pain. Even more sorrowful is the sight of my pencil and a cable needle side by side, both desperately beckoning. The former shows its brilliantly grey colours, enticing my excitement to use it. The latter mulls over its double-pointed ends, puffing out its last smoke of steam though I bought it only yesterday. Which one should I pick up?

I think about my own kindness with both decisions. The latter is rather inconsiderate, as it is a sudden psychological drop from the soaring height of my messages. That leaves me with only one choice. Or does it?

Every day I feel my distance from the land of love increases noticeably. Is it no longer love when every passing second brings sprinkles of needles? The needles knit a beautiful, cable-knit blanket, choking my own heart out of rhythm, into its inevitable demise.How can I go on living like this, every day, thinking about her? It is not only the continuance of thought, but the lack of a single response. Perhaps it is her way of voicing her disinterest, by not using her voice altogether. Or is it simply a gesture I should not take too lightly, for any person with the slightest bit of social decency would craft a response?

Many days I wonder if this endeavour is worth the effort. I continuously rejected my doubts with rebuttals from the substance I have gained. Though, what substance is there when I love nothing more than a barren land that will never see the sun? Perhaps this so-called “substance” was simply a drain of time, energy, and a reservoir of regret.

It is stupidity to have fooled my own mind into unconditional love for her. In very little ways does this love resemble the love of a profession. Sacrifices made for a profession have a backbone of purpose; the noble nature of pouring one’s energies towards a collaborative effort of thinkers. Such is not the case when I dedicate hours to knit a blanket that will cover this barren land. In a land with no light, the presence of a blanket will make no difference.

Perhaps the purpose in life is out there, somewhere in the distance. I can only hope for its existence. Though, I know for certain the purpose is not this. But why the hatred?

I have told myself that there is enough hate in this world and I need not contribute to it. Though, a problem arises when it becomes apparent when I fight a battle with the barren lands. The slashes of my sword cuts through the thin air with no avail. It only makes me colder. I cannot possibly contribute enough warmth to this bitter cold to transform it into a warm haven. Continuous bouts of giving has left me tired, emotionally and physically. The land drains my mind.

When warmth brings no warmth, let the cold wind blow.

I have exhausted my energies on such a juvenile preoccupation. Although, I have every tendency to continue in this path. Perhaps that’s the danger of loneliness, the risk of succumbing to a land so barren it creates a new definition of pain.

When I look back, I could say that the suffering was too much to bear, that missing you had become intolerable, even though every day is indeed one day close to when we meet again. But perhaps this feeling was immature, as, what is there to miss when there hasn’t been anything?

Perhaps it’s a difficult medicine to take, but a necessary one. Perhaps I will regret my decision for the days to come, but if I remain in status quo, I will regret this for months, years, and the rest of my life. I cannot allow a bout of lamentations over a small pebble that has tripped me twice. I must remember how I had come across this pebble and avoid such a misstep in the future. It is not to suggest an aura of negativity, for it is simply the conflict of heart. There is nothing over which to lament, for there was nothing over which to lament.

It is not love; it is something more torturous than love. Perhaps it is the type of love we should avoid: the type with no meaning.

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