I lost myself some time ago,
and could not get me back.
I mourn in silent agony,
for the things that I now lack.
The passion that once drove me,
has vanished into air.
And the things that I once loved to do,
it's like they were never there.
Monotony and endless days,
are bland and dull and dreary.
The life that I've now settled to,
drains, and leaves me weary.
I don't recognise my face these days,
the light has left my eyes.
And even though I say I'm fine,
I don't believe those lies.
I miss the me that I once was,
And long for her return.
To reignite the fire,
and watch this empty shell burn.
I pass you, unexpectedly, and then I’m gone before you see me; lost in the throng of people milling about in this small, not so small space. I’ve not seen you in a long time, and the weight of reaction is heavy in my chest. I should be over this by now.
My heart drops to my stomach in that singular instant. If it made a sound, it would be the dull sound of a lead ball hitting a carpeted wooden floor. That’s what it feels like, and I know I’ll be replaying those few seconds in my head for days to come. I’m angry at myself for it.
The green of your dress, and the dark length of your hair sticks out vividly in my mind. You are like a beacon in my memory, shining more brightly than anything else of late. I hate that you still make me feel this way, I hate that you still make my heart skip a beat.
I wish you were nothing to me. I wish you were invisible, unknown. I don’t want you in my mind anymore, and I wish I’d never had cause to know you at all.
Words like shards of broken glass, slicing through soft flesh. My heart feels torn, a secret yearning never voiced aloud, spoken only in riddles and penned in hidden pages.
Too long, to long for a dream never realized. Will my life waste away before me, with my deepest desires yet unfulfilled? My time runs out slowly, each second drawing me closer to the inevitable conclusion. I know the truth of it, and yet still, a tiny part of me clings to the hope that perhaps I might be wrong.
A silent scream, laced with the echoes of agony. A broken mind, a broken heart, trapped within an ever decaying body. Wasting away into nothing, never knowing the sweetness, nor the fire. Passions are left to fade into nothing, and it all remains the same.
Something stirs within my chest. Unexplainable, indefinable, yet present in an almost tangible way. I ache for the sweetness of new experience.
Emotion catches in my throat at the very thought of shy encounters. Cheeks flushed, hearts racing, hands shaking; risking everything for the chance of something more.
The empty space beside me longs to be filled with warmth and the sounds of whispered kisses and gentle exploration. Somewhere hidden beneath the mask of bravado and brass, is the desire to be desired.
To be loved.
Tonight I went to see Aurora at one of my favourite venues in the city. It was an ethereal, uplifting experience and one of the most beautiful live performances I have ever seen. I was going to write a post about it, and then I got struck with a thought; does anyone care?
My blog is not themed. I don’t talk about fashion, or write recipes, or solely review films. I’m not consistent in either the dates of posting, or in the content. I literally just write about whatever happens to be occupying my brain at any given time. It is eclectic, and often a little rambling. I have a number of followers, and a few who regularly read and comment on my posts. It’s a nice feeling, to know that there are people put there who actually like the way I write. But still, now that this thought is in my head, I can’t shake it.
I often say that the reason I write, and indeed blog, is because it’s a creative outlet that I deem necessary for my sanity. In many ways, writing is a kind of catharsis. But it is, predominantly, just me writing about myself. Experiences I’ve had, people I’ve met, things I’ve done, and thoughts that have popped into my head. I’m not in any way giving advice. I am not funny, or educational, or motivational. So, why do I think my thoughts are worth posting to the internet, instead of just writing down in a diary for myself?
I guess there’s a part of me that wants to be heard. Since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of being a writer. Maybe by posting blogs about my day to day life, and getting a response, is a way to live out that dream. Maybe there’s a chance that something I have to say might resonate with someone (or multiple someones) out there. Or maybe I’m just arrogant, and think that I’m more important and interesting than I really am. I honestly don’t know, but I do know that I’ll continue writing. Because, whether for creative purposes, or just to stoke my own ego, there’s something to be said for getting things out of your head and onto paper (so to speak).
Do any of you ever feel that way? Have you ever questioned why you write? Let me know!
Anger bubbles, soon to be quelled. Silent promises never honoured, keep your emotions to yourself.
Words unspoken, choking tongue and tasting bitter. Fists clenched, hold back, everything is fine.
Indulge. Pander. Pretend. Play the role, live the lie. No one cares to know, no one thinks to care.
Frustration leaves marks on the skin, half moon scars. Mustn’t be a burden. Listen, smile, leave welts in flesh. Bleed quietly.
Paste a grin, wear the mask. Don’t let them in.
“One day,” she said, “someone is going to look at you, and see all the things they ever hoped for. You won’t have to spend another night with Loneliness for your only companion, or crying silently in the dark where no one can see. One day, someone is going to choose you, and they will keep on choosing you, every single day thereafter. One day, my sweet child, you are going to be happy. Do not give up hope, nor resign yourself to bitterness. And remember that you are worth so much more than you think.”