The Way I Am

Dissentient

We're exhausted and our souls have grown weary. Just like the clothes you wore grew worn, your soul also wears out. Soon, the tiredness will overwhelm all and there will only be a darkness surrounding the hopes of the souls' wandering. Does life matter? Does it matter? Does it? We ask this question many times. We struggle and frantically kick the air about us but we hit nothing. We're all alone. We suffers alone, and all we love, we love alone.

Some love wishes are granted, and some are rejected. Some death wishes are granted, and some are rejected. Some hope wishes are granted, but some are crushed. The world we live in is as such. Crying out, "Cruel!" doesn't help anyone. No one cares, no one sees. No one sees the hand drowning in the midst of the wide diversity and assuming it as a waving hand, non fathom. Non pay attention to the destructive fire within people and regret being blind. All we are capable of is regretting. All we ever had to do was just see before death, yet our eyes have been purged by our own souls and we no longer feel. Thus we search for a fragile thing called love, to find meaning.

We accept the love we think we deserve. That love is however not heaven nor hell, it is a shallow cave that we rest in temporarily. The shadow of blanket covers our shivering body and we sigh. But it's just a shelter from rain that will erode away and once it does, we search for it again. The fate of our kind, so glorious and yet so pitiful, is doomed. Knowledge destroys our minds and the tragedy slowly comes to an end...

A subtle thought can turn into a tragedy.. And once it does, there's no stopping it. Quietly, oh so quietly, we cry in our bed knowing that it won't make a difference. The dramatic moments in our life that we create are all dull memories that one day will be forgotten, and we are all actors. Actors like us will age and turn into what we came from; we came from dust. A story can be written, but it will not be read. A song can be sung but it will not be heard. An feelings will be left behind, but it will not be felt. A piece of our heart will be left behind, but it will not be remembered...

This is the way I am, who understand me when I say that this is beautiful?