“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”
― Laurell K. Hamilton
About a year.
Very well, it seems during this span of time i’ve lost a luster for writing. It’s been haphazardly noted that I should start up again. That misery is a drive through which i’ll publish an image that I can aggrandize and polish off the flaws. However, I cannot find it in myself to pick up the shards that have become brittle over time as I only continue to step over them ignorantly. We sometimes allow ourselves to contemplate what could’ve been or what lies in store, hoping it will come to us with a childish grin. But, the truth sometimes becomes darker with time, growing and becoming bolder then we’d expect it to be.
Even though it’s become so difficult, I have found it harder to give up even when i’m just beyond the descent into madness. It ascends like notes to a pitiful tune and falls just as quickly, screeching without mercy as the music dies out with a visceral roar. I cant quite find where to stop and find myself going back and forth between the spectrum. Tears are bitter and laughter is even more acidic then before, it burns with the ever-present torment of the present looming before me, whispering bitter-sweet nothings into my ear. They’re almost inaudible, but then again I can hear it following through as it continues to whisper these empty fortunes.
How much more can one take before they start to destroy themselves in an attempt to survive the inevitable?