Sta.sh
It feels like the only way I can breathe is to scream.
The emotional implosion compresses inside my skull and the only way the force can escape is through a physical, forced out opening. A scream with a magnitude I've never wanted to reach labels itself as my prisoner, begging to burst out all the energy in me.
But no, I mustn't. It stays trapped within me for a reason other than how late at night this is. If this energy leaves me, I myself am gone. The emotion in my soul, whether it is in spirits as high as the heavens or as low as the lowest fathoms can possibly go, is put into every noise I make. If all the uproar of my negative aura were to depart from me, so would the other parts of my person. My personal self will wear itself out.
Only time will predict when the ashes that were once myself will become a whole Phoenix again, ready to reclaim the skies that it illuminates with the beauty of its flames.
Although the amount of time needed to recreate what was lost is uncertain, one thing is. Time itself, because time stops for no man no matter what the reason or how heavy the pleading and desire to cease or rewind is. There is no going back for time, only forward.
While I observe those around me, I note this common theme of going forward in life despite what life has dealt them. They call it 'moving on'. When I think of the people that go on about their day, I want to acknowledge them. What may happen to me for a day could be their daily lives. For them, I shall not scream. I will incarcerate my nagging urge only for them. What I feel does not disappear, however. Rather, the reminder of the goodness that was taken from me is a catalyst for the undying magnitude that I'm barricading.
So for those who ask of me, "how are you doing?" I may have to alter my response but the direct answer is not hopeful. I'm not broken nor am I repaired. Despite my doubts for the better, who am I to predict my future? Although I have left my love in ones hands, they couldn't seize it and I fell through the creases separating the digits. Who's to say I'm caught again? Or do I keep falling? Falling...into the depts in which I trap myself. It is there where the scream lies..
Before I hit the bottom of the abyss in my heart, I feel these words chant and echo throughout the fissure:
Is life a dream or a nightmare?
Does one know that they are here or there?
Do you believe that you can be anywhere?
Is life a nightmare or a dream?
Do we think in or outside of the border?
Reality is what it is or what it seems
for joy or for horror
everyone would like to scream.
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