Muffled Beats

Dear diary,

I've been feeling so well trapped lately, in a museum of my own life. 

Sometimes I can only witness it as a spectator from a distance, instead of the victim, claiming my consequences fair or foul. 

Nothing stimulates my skin, as dead ice. It's like going else-whither, whither my heart takes me.

 I  succumb to giving in to my own circumstances, too hilarious for me to laugh; too susceptive to be uncured, too dead to be unrenaissanced. 

The deeper I fall into the gorge, the closer I can see the sky; I lie fallen on the ground, as the rose petals do. 

When I was close to death, I've had some of the best days of my life. 

I believe I'm a piece of art unbecoming for any frame except my own. 

I'm the veiled portrait of a beauty unrevealing to any soul but homogeneous to mine.

 In a room full of stolen lights, hidden lights, I'm the night at free rise. 

Most eyes are too weak-visioned to see beyond the dark. 

It's at the end of each day when there's still time for the next sun to arise, the journey in between, that the worst thing to do is to take steps backward for the fear of getting lost in the dark. 

At nights long enough to dream, there are scintillating stories radiating from the stars; you can't always see the light around but there are constellations you aren't aware of. 

I wonder who can be better acquainted with the mornings, than who lost them to his nights? Who does sing of the skies as valiantly as the caged birds? Oh who does know better of the kindness of the heart than a beggar bread-starved upon the poverty stricken streets? 

Eyes are too quick to judge, and I prefer a slow heart with muffled beats.

With love,

Em♡︎