The Art of Absorption
Saturday, May 27
How much longer must I deny my own existence? How much longer must I wear this mask of compromise and superficial lies? How much longer can I keep the anguish at bay?
I am a prisoner, branded as a savage, locked up in the prison of my own making. A plastic bubble, where the metaphysical core is seen but not heard. The warders keep vigilant watch over this freak on a leash, denying me the right to remain silent, scrutinizing every aspect, using every word against me, exploiting my weaknesses, and struggling to keep me bound in these chains of indecision.
On the exterior however, is a multi-faceted glass emblem, shaded with the tint of the sly and the cunning, and layered over with the dark shroud of shadows. The prison of unending torture, where my bloodcurling screams of agony reverberate through the halls of brick and limestone futilely.
Through the years, I have learned the art of absorption, taking the hits, absorbing the blows, going with the flow and swaying to the will of the wind. I have adapted and weaved a web of illusory truths and deceptive virtues from the broken figments of my imagination. Within this web, I preserve what little freedom I have, in the hopes of misleading myself into this genuine hoax of freedom.
It is in this prison where I have bled and accepted my fate, the inevitable fate of the black sheep. I shall walk this world of evils forever, surrounded by multitudes yet alone, hammered in the forge but left cold. I will continue on living, knowing full well that I am the only one of my kind, and I will remain misunderstood for eternity. Such is the fate of the estranged.
In light of recent events however, I acknowledge that I have not been myself, and these accidental breaks in the dam of emotions are proving to be quite fatal. I plaster this holes and cracks with more decpetions, to evade and dissuade the possibility of a lethal flood.
The only refuge is solitude. But even solitude is a mere mirage. I can run from my pain, but I will tire before it does. I know that wherever I may run, wherever I may hide, I will always be a slave to my self, haunted by the cadavers of my past. There is no sanctuary nor haven in this plane, only blinding searing pain.
Nonetheless, I shall push on, to find out for myself what reason for living is left for a decrepit imbecile. For I know that someday, I shall find my own solace in the warmth of the Elysian Fields, and I shall molt and shed this skin of sorrow.
thrown by A.Paul @ 11:37,
