Dark Whisperings of a Buried Mind

The fact your heart is beating doesn't mean you are alive. It's been so long a man can't remember. Once a sweet soul, turned villain now left with a scar, wounded and twisted out of shape, out of life, out of breathing, out of death. Neither living nor dying; just fucked.

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Death is so peaceful, but a sensitive cum conscientious soul gets fretted about by uncertainty and its many cousins. By the fact that he cannot understand the language this universe speaks most times. For example, as a child, he accepted the norm of unquestioned obedience, he sacrificed his drive, his intuition and imagination just so he could pass for a “good boy” “good kid” and shit upon shit upon shit.

Busy doing “good” for the first decade and a half of his life, he ended up as a stunted experiment. Stunted from life, from nature, from love. A gap that stayed too long, the brain forgot to fill it.

On the day he manages to live, the beautiful pixels of life come together, piece by piece, catches the perfect shot and portrays how beautiful life can be. This sets his soul on fire like a drop of water does the dried up throat of an old monk and before the sun set, he wants nothing more than this experience of ecstasy, of joy, of happiness, of love.

He wants the taste of life. He wants to be human again.

He pushes for it. Unyieldingly un-shielding and opening up even if just for a moment, a chink of vulnerability.

However, the old demons are knocking, telling me to give the fuck up and stick to what I know. What I do. And fuck yes they have a point: they are as stable as can be. But does life end there? Where everything has to be and exist in my mind and mind alone? Does the world not go beyond having mindgasms?

I have been trying for the past few days and coming out as robotic as can be. Every time I push, the demons whisper “give up.”

I have a chance to boom out. I feel it every time I make an effort. To grow, to include, to come out of my mind, to feel, to love, trying and pushing and for the first time in my entire life, willing to accept the possibility to fail and accept it is okay.

And that is why giving up is getting less attractive. It is a whole new world out there anyway. Better I stick to it and dig in as deep as can be, after all, I know not what the final outcome will be. Worst still, a dead man does not fear a second or third death. It’s still the same cold lifeless existence and if this push does not come to shove, fails and end up disastrously, I can go back to speaking my language: loneliness.