Drowning Dusk

It was a cold grimy night. I had been suffering as usual, the patient and victim of my own mind, my own thoughts. Incoherent yet coherent. My heart, weary and tired. Older than it was supposed to be - a traitor. It fell for what it could not reach and that also with deep seated envy. Hollowed away was my sense of self,

“There is no use in just living one life, when you can live multiple lives at once. That is, what truly keeps me living. To facade at this stage-Though I am envious of the ones who simply skip away from what would have tore me down, gradually. And to end it all would be fruitless! For, the devil waits above, and i find the mere idea more comforting than I should!”

The streets below were filled, scarcely, but surely of people, of humans and the ever-so-rare: the dreamer, the free man. About three children, small, young, fragile yet already cruel. The eyes, oh the eyes, dear reader, the eyes never lie. They seem to laugh at my predicament. As if somehow, they knew of my sorrow and chose to laugh at it. To poke upon it. I knew they were not as cruel as I imagined yet I chose, I still choose to believe they were laughing at my misery. I am the person who waits and waits and waits. Keeps waiting until my legs are more numb than they already are. I wait, because I am unfortunately....

Naive.

I am not a saint, not much of a sinner either. That is why I am grey. I stutter, I fumble, I make mistakes, but I do not stop. I fail and yet, I come back ashamed yet, dangling on the same thread of misplaced hope. Alive.

Even as thinking for myself and Scribbling about it brings me shame, I cannot stop. Yes, my hands, though weary and tired - do not stop. They itch and ache to create.

Acceptance may come with tired limbs, it also comes with rebellion. A grim fire. Bright, dull.

You see, dear reader, I am a mediocre being. I have no talents, no special extraordinary abilities- but extremist are my emotions and absurdist are my dreams.

Shame.

Down below, on the streets, at an ally. A child only appearing to be 5 was being slapped by what appears to be his agitated (Dare I say, rather beautiful!)- mother.

“The double standards” I would have mused to myself, had I been incapable of feeling shame for even addressing my own name, myself.

“Hit a grown man, they call it assault, hit a poor loyal mutt, they call it abuse, hit a child, it is called discipline! ”

If there had been a word stronger than this disgust, I would have screeched at the top of my lungs like a mad person. Yet, it would not be enough for the absolute disgust, revulsion I felt for the poor treatment of this child, at humanity, at the mere notion of humanity in that moment. Dare I say, I would have woken the Misanthropist from his grave next graveyard down the street,(which I rarely visit, except on a gloomy day) had I had the voice to shout. Yet I do not, do I? Perhaps, it is there.... Buried, yet sparking alive. Waiting for a storm that will never come.

It never rains when I bring my umbrella. Its handle worn down from constant idle gripping, or is it?

It does not rain, it will never rain. Shame.

I cannot explain what I felt with one distant night, you made me happy forever. You showed me life.. is after all worth living, that humans are indeed bearable! You were the realist, I was the free man. You opened my eyes, painfully, slowly, softly. Your spectral presence gave me unbearable joy.

But I never quite believed your words, did I? How could i expect you to believe mine? They cry, I bleed furiously with ink. We were together as divine spectral beings nobody could touch or look upon. Yet you made me feel as if I had lived seven years, when i had only lived one night. I am the dog, so I wait.

You are the sun, bright, yet grim-you pain me.

Yet, I stare....