Lesser-Human

Dear Diary,

It's a hardened-ice-melting-in-freezing-chill kind of day, the universe in it's selfsame ole way yet with a teinture of newish comprehension of it's powers, seems to have come to prefer the "law of the opposites." The light breezy wind in the past walking through the town every single morn titillating every leaf of every tree, every single existent and non-existent being, seems to have senesced to it's near end, transitioning into a bent old hag with a stick, stumbling at every stone on the way, and having null effect on the surroundings. Days are what look like flowers closing into buds; the last crescent moon sliding into a second waning phase. Journeys are squared in shape, and the perimeter is shrinking day by day. Standing at the centre, the once infinite radius of it like that of the stars, is visible at an arm's length. The picture of reality is one visible through a keyhole. The wheels of time, out of some inscrutable, fathomless force, are deemed to be turning backwards, leading to the past in place of the future. The euphoriant blues of the rainbows look quite alike the colour of my wounds. The deep rusted skies at sunset correlate seamlessly with the bandages on my heart, blood-soaked. I thrive as a creature cursed in voice, too shocked to speak, with a vision in the eyes yet no image recognised. A beggar on the street robbed of it's last piece of bread, going to sleep on empty stomach for a row of nights longer than ever before. They're indeed right that I'm alive, but they never look into my eyes. I feel a lesser-human. And what I write is enough handicapped as my hands. Life is romantically barbaric, it's idealistically unreal. The wallflowers once abloom, withered into absence; smothered under the footsteps of time, can they be found again? Probably no, probably yes. The safety and surety is one like being way lost at midnight, by a desolate river, throwing stones into the water and wishing for them to reappear at the surface; like playing a witchcraft on my heart, possessing it with impossible beliefs; like sitting under the moonless sky, searching for it's reflection on the water. Let me believe still that it's not lost. Let me wait for the nights when the moon will rise.