Reminiscence

Dear Diary,

Reminiscing how these country roads, scouring this part of the world I belong, led me home in the past. The grey pavement I walk on presently makes me feel that I'm still running slow, that I must not but dart like an arrow through the winds, outwards forever. There's land everywhere except under my feet. I'm groundless, slipping away as time into nothingness; as a rolling stone gathering no moss. Where are the bullet holes in my windows when I can clearly see the glass panes cracking down? Am I enchanted into some shenanigan of invisibility of truth, or my soul pulled into witchcraft that I daydream nightmares? The caprice of an unpresidential choice of life over death, left my humane heart as those belonging to the white statues in the garden, of an ever-unmelting stonelikeness. Searching for me is trying to light up damp wood on the coldest winter night. If you ever find me, find me in the shadowy groves and nightfall lakesides and interiors of darkened caves, somewhere I can seek my soul. The sweetest of sounds aren't death bells, neither ghost shrieks echoing in my hollow heart, rather it's silence; how sweet a poison to kill! All I have is my beauty fading into nothingness, but as Keats says, it's still "a joy forever." Reminiscing the present, how it was supposed to be but isn't, and holding on to whatever sham happiness still clings to it, like cherishing the fainting smell of earth several hours after rain. Each day ends on a cliffhanger. And I believe happiness is as certain as the next sunrise, if I wake up from my sleep to see the light again. A disastrous dichotomy lies within my own self, with one half of me trembling at every rise and fall of hopes, and the other half rooting for it's beliefs as high as the stars, and lies the falling bridge between them . Like the ruins of an earthdin-embraced city trembling in aftershocks, my scared heart survives. Every inch of my skin burns with the guilt of this unholy existence. In the armchair, as emotionless as me, I submerge, letting myself breathe, allowing one moment of life to me where I feel every next beat is my heart's achievement; like the flower girl in a flower field running after butterflies, hoping to find back those which died inside her stomach. Into the sky, searching for the silver threads that might be accidentally weaved into its dark flecky cloudiness.