A sullen force pushes against my forehead, eternally subjecting my gaze to a bleak nothingness. I was still blinking, but blinded by the chink of own pupils. I faded in and out of existence, visions flashing by, eyes immobile, cheated of its pure elegance, slowly pounded by my conscience.
I sag into my seat with desolate hopelessness. I can no longer enjoy the spirited energy of diligent work. The swift run has changed into interminable coughs, the stutters of my heartbeat.
I can no longer bear the searing regret of my life, expounding its miseries on my soul as if I could be tolerant. The beam creaks in desperate agony, faltering to the headwinds of life. I could console my pitiful soul by calming my simmering ego with calm tranquility and acceptance of mediocrity. But I force my fingers to depress the keys of my keyboard, each button-press pulling on a thin fiber of words abhorrently strung, losing all meaning.
The pain spreads with force, across temples, flashing to my ears. It reminds me of the music I yearn, yet am unable to hear; the sweetness of sounds stringed together with purpose, sucked from my life by the cold brutality of endless toil. Exonerate me! my ego, exonerate me! for I have lost your passions in my dust-ridden storm. Grains of sand pierce through my eyes, relentlessly digging into the heart of my soul. They callous me like stones to a stonemason; they twist into my skin, tearing apart my superfluous cover.
My right leg trembles below the knee, as if a blood clot is making a proclamation. I tremble with it, at my physical intolerance to the accumulation of work. My papers hide three pieces of holiness. They beckon my eyes to glaze over its cotton pages, its German printing, its hardcover quality. Maybe I’ll even get to read the words in them, I’ll just need a movable book holder for my motionless eyes.
I’ll think of a new way, I’ll think of a new hope. I’ll dream about the day when I am no longer moribund and sullen, when I can dive into the sea of knowledge without any obligation to swim to the deep end. It’s a sea — why can’t it be free?
I splash the water with stamps of my feet, ceaselessly condemning confinement and conformity. But now I dream of drowning, slowly sinking into the infinite sea. The water laps into my nose, crawling into my head. My eardrums blast apart under the suppression. Yet I am still conscious. I fall deeper and deeper until my skin writhes with intolerable punches of pain. Each impact spreads like a cushion, innocently spreading its waves of suffering.
I buckle at my fallibility. The dark underwater haze muddles my memories, crumbles my reason. The more I flail I more I fall. Yet if I stay still I’d fall of my guilt. I gulp down water, torturing my stomach, my organs compress and decompress, from the weight of the sea, outside and in. I pity my wails as if they’re a desperate attempt to dilute the sea, with every tear surmounting into insignificance, desolate decrepitude.
I’ll go on, I can’t go on. It’s this reversal of phrasing that poignantly expresses itself, its emotions and desolation. I carry it with my eyes, the gleam of a long gone radiance replaced by a stubborn insistence.
I still go on– wandering.