Even now it means much to me, somewhat. For someone who until moments ago continues to feel left out in a grand schema for whose ongoing bearing though he often wonders, the paradox of my angst is self-evident. Sometimes blame seems to invade me, forcing in me a tendency to imbibe the consternation that inevitably torments my soul as given, the recoil from my reality being subject to exogenous permutations, and even my soul being irretrievably embedded in celluloid.
That my perception of an enviable state from which afar mine relishes must confound even an innocence that still longs for empathy. From the torture of a child tossed in bits of time crucial to the fullness of an emerging soul streams a grotesque whose ambience complicates an internal struggle for emancipation that even a child as nurturing must crave. Indeed, the need must be even more urgent that my angst even until now it seems must manifest in excruciating emotional pain.
To shudder over niceties is inane, for me that a smile seems to mock, locking myself up in the open, everyone else content to show how different someone else must be even if by choice operating behind closed doors. The pity in my eyes says nothing though. Even to wish that they understand their folly starts to be hollow when in fact mine in so doing sometimes seems to me worse. Moreover, that it appears never assonant my narcissism rendering my thoughts to a void humbles ahead of my imminent epiphany.
Yet, the recurrence of my past is instructive. Given my proclivity for the dramatic, my latching to history to face a gruesome presence explains that to virtue the exercise sometimes aims to soothe. The univocal player though still seeks an audience, even if for the sake of the others, particularly in their formative eras, just so they do not end up enmeshed in a psychic debacle of seemingly unmitigated tenure. Thus, to insist to escape the pressure of social construction seems not asinine after all.
Seated there waiting then is tranquil, interrupted periodically by internal naggings of a scenario that in study my soul eschews but in truth it must confront. So, I keep praying and waiting. It is hard to ignore eyes that mine say rove even to vex my calmness to shatter, to awaken history again, for me to start again, to seek peace, and escape from pain.
It seems not so long that the man must run away, from youngsters in school and at play that name him names, a bugaboo he claims is alien to his aching soul, which tag though he bears with grace, as he runs again, too shy to do it again, as they all not in shame. As a young man he wrinkles away, too afraid to drink even what oils his soul that he must to stay well, and even live, he dares ask to pass on rather than face his fate.
Even poisoned due prior to where he labours scares him still, albeit still stoic as he struggles with pain to render his void never mind away from all to ease his psychic pain. He remembers calling dates off, changing his mind yet again to visit his friends, even to partake in occasions dear to him and friends, not to say his family whose cry for him to seek help seems always in vain.
But it is all ok, is how it seems to me to travel back in time, even to still figure how losing my job over a submission to what still feels an intrusion into my angst-ridden world makes sense to anyone but me. Perhaps my family would understand the reason it is only now the case that I here wait, even if certainly some would say they have at all a chance so to see my way. Inside my hope that this trip resolves my angst assures, even as those eyes still threaten to compel me off my seat, and on my way again, into the recess that goes everywhere with me.
One after another time ticks my way. The smile that strays in from the corner of my eyes of one strikes my soul like never before. Even my inert mind now seems unable to resist a kindred innocence the beckons sincere, a conacaste for an ailing soul it seems it would forever adore. For once my eyes level with others as they trail momentarily in guise, even as they must herald it seems a new day. Calmness descends on me again, and I wait.
My mind fills up soon enough for me to consolidate my gains. At last it seems providence knocks to save my day. My past seems so distant now it must it appears be a dream. And to wallow in shame no longer appeals. That someone seems to peruse my mind and shut my water down is now a myth. When even a drop of soda now seems not of drain my soul rejoices something strange is afoot it must though embrace.
Now gone is to wonder if someone sees me shuffling in my seat, the pain in my eyes when occupants in all rooms are taking too long to appear, and spaces abound in the open that I shun, and as I sweat wagering to go or hold tight. That I now not question the smile is new. It is simply sublime it seems for someone to rock my soul at all let alone its very roots. It is no longer hard to wait, even as eyes still rove, as now they tell a different tale, each, its own.
Within moments my smile overwhelms even me as I shut down my notebook, my companion of yore, in which my eyes hide, and my soul sinks, away from preying eyes. Now it seems it is my turn. But in another direction I already head, to face my life anew, no longer shy or afraid, to drink water or let it go, as all else do, sure in my friend, of pure love for me as me.
