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Loss.
It is days like these where you feel like removing your organs and wringing them on the laundry line to air dry with your linen sheets. You ponder the benefits of saying goodbye. There is no sweet relief, but pain, and nothing more or less. Loss is inevitable, and it waits patiently for your acceptance, and when it is permitted to take over your body, the organs are dirtied again. And when you don't have the strength to rip them out once more, you feel it. All over. It trickles throughout your brain, swims throughout your veins, beats it's way around your lungs and eventually tarnishes your heart.
You are in the body of an angel with his silk wingspan roped painfully around his back. Your hands desperately search for a victim, clinging on to that body of yours as if you were hopelessly saying goodbye to your own person. But there was always something there telling you not to feel, not to accept the misfortune of your happenings, and allow yourself to abscond from the world as a fragment of the lively person you once were. Is this the way? Your eyes close, aching to find your answer in the expansive abyss enclosed behind your eyelids.
You feel your thoughts fold neatly, assorting themselves into piles amongst your mind. You are mourning, and you believe that this is the way it all must be, but now you are content in sleeps embrace. The nights pass, one, two, three, four, and you find yourself hoping that at the break of dawn, reasoning will reach you, cleanse your soul, and meticulously purify the organs that were once so soiled with hurt. There is something bitter - sweet about waiting patiently, feeling yourself wonder, and soon, the moon will creep along the horizon and continue its pattern, just as you will continue yours.
© All Rights Reserved
Sophia :)
You are in the body of an angel with his silk wingspan roped painfully around his back. Your hands desperately search for a victim, clinging on to that body of yours as if you were hopelessly saying goodbye to your own person. But there was always something there telling you not to feel, not to accept the misfortune of your happenings, and allow yourself to abscond from the world as a fragment of the lively person you once were. Is this the way? Your eyes close, aching to find your answer in the expansive abyss enclosed behind your eyelids.
You feel your thoughts fold neatly, assorting themselves into piles amongst your mind. You are mourning, and you believe that this is the way it all must be, but now you are content in sleeps embrace. The nights pass, one, two, three, four, and you find yourself hoping that at the break of dawn, reasoning will reach you, cleanse your soul, and meticulously purify the organs that were once so soiled with hurt. There is something bitter - sweet about waiting patiently, feeling yourself wonder, and soon, the moon will creep along the horizon and continue its pattern, just as you will continue yours.
© All Rights Reserved
Sophia :)
