It is a very cold day. To rouse is hard enough, much more to rise. I ignore all else but the kitten, as somewhere my heart goes out to a lost soul, even though not sure of which, the others or the cat. No more snoozes I say, buoying my weakness, warding off the tempest, matters evolving, my mind struggling to be silent, filling me up with fear, even in my sleep, or as something tells me, the creeping twilight.
The comfort of snuggle placates the turmoil of ruin. The need for temperance, an atoll in a vacuum of latent threat, which calls innately for comfort, through action, suchlike keeps my soul from imminent collapse, in the languor of dread occasioned by inestimable angst lost in wonder over nothingness. It seems, though, just for a while.
Enduring years of brutality takes its toll I learn, no matter the will. There seems nowhere to hide. It does not help to curl up in foetal retreat, or glare at a plain ceiling, or idolize a veritable wall of indignity, to hide my tears. It does not help to close my eyes, as old tears still trickle through, to mortify me down where crawling in pain does not inspire the heart in compost that preys on earth.
It is the same escape that leads to nowhere. Tire out a minuet in sundry melodies for want to seem irreconcilable with a matter of survival in a bid to erase a curse some would say who fail to appreciate the basis for the need for no angst to make it make sense. Would it not in fact be the case that the dread may be less haranguing and soothe the soul of even the most patrician for a mix that fosters peace, ignorance of which may tell its caginess?
So my wait seems justified. Well, in the sense that it is no longer a demand that my soul seeks relief in amity. As time does not appear to heal me, as nothing seems too far from my tangled consciousness to escape scrutiny, and as many years of turmoil imprint even more memories that mulishly torture it, why would my soul not be weary to languish in misery, and crave to flee a chicane world?
If patience is thus paradise, and manna is round the corner it behoves to whinge to justify not appropriated as in fact then a way of life, its ilk spread in dire vibes to those we profess to love and who in fact soon know we then would eventually only emasculate with too much such love. So what is a lame soul in a trap of gory debacles that claim legitimacy upon normalcy defined in terms alien to even all to do?
The array of inquests no longer stirs the mind. It goes blank with each, perhaps a defence to preserve its nature, which in a similar garb, reaches out enough to know when nothing is forthcoming to warrant further inquiry. The battle though rages between capitulating and forging ahead, the former an understandable, and indeed, immutable it seems, consequence of a perverted perspective that renders the self lacking, and the latter, the antidote to self-immolation.
Thus it must matter little how my delight in want manifests. Not even a lifelong desire to tread a distinct path being a philosophical given registers. It appears the imperative is to venerate a grand stance that subordinates my being, a twist to an overwhelming presence an approach to which must be in unvarying flux, testimony to a cryptic vigour screaming in us all for expression.
To be sure, it seems easier for me to be reticent in bed, my sanctuary to assure my sanity, to continue to revere self-pity. After all the cogitation just prolongs my agony. That it projects my reliance on the caprices of an obdurate wall of a collegiate of mourners is even worse. Yet, my entreaty that someone drags me out of my cocoon must be unheard by a mass warming their divans eternally much like me.
It hurts so awfully I cry. My pillow sinks under tears. The kitten in my head comforts me, to know that it no longer cries. The laconic verse that is my mantra in a state of reprieve should prepare me for the day, as presumptuous that this would end my sorrow as it sounds. Yet, my need is for peace in a worthless mien that presents as existence in shackles wrapped in a toga of penury with a cap outstretched for drops of pittance.
Many years on, not all remain the same, though nothing has remarkably changed. It is indeed manifest of the seeming inertia that pervades my whole that escalates my anguish to resort to flight. Now there is nowhere to hide. Not even the wish to repress my pain reveals itself to my tortured soul. Thankfully, it is clearer now that my fate is solely mine, and that to fail to act is to condemn to rot a being for whom to thrive it seems should as for all else be binding.
At last it dawns, even if hours later for me. In any case, it feels good even if it shames my mind to contemplate, even fleetingly, to hide now, after so long knowing it is to no avail. My soul awakens, at last, to my being as mortal, despite which it should thrive, no matter its pain over the years and even now, and to what my existence signifies to me in a massive scheme to dread which is pointless given to relish which is indeed, my path, to peace, which then ceases being elusive.
Now up, my soul no longer in limbo, it is just another day, to savour whose promise my mind desires and its pain must now for me not be reason to despair as life must proceed, regardless. So then, singing and swaying in rapturous rhythm to the melodies of life, everything seems to be just right as on the road again my day at last begins. Life now for me is to rouse, inspire, and heal my soul. It is to erase my angst, ease my sorrow, and relieve my pain, anew, my way.
