A storm is brewing, conjuring a perpetual state of mourning which shows no sign of waning — something inside of me is rotten. The desolate core has expired and yet eludes understanding. Symptoms of tears appear in excess, gentle and lukewarm pearls they may appear, but remain futile — staining the glass skin and illuminating its cracked exterior. Sentenced to relive the same mortifying mental loop, tormented by visions of an alternate life. The dampening of my eyes serves as nothing but a reminder of compromised existence.
Leading the prisoner to a barren cell, she is shackled to the burden of condemnation, and as fear seeps deeper into the cracks of her life, she feels herself slipping, falling, cartwheeling, spiraling downwards. But the chain remains bound to the fibre of my being; holding me captive, dismissing me even as I fail to understand it. A haranguing and deadening feeling plunges deeper into the inner recess, a wasteland of woes. Fragments of half-stifled agony float around aimlessly, obscured in a swampy marshland of mystery, cloaking subdued tales of infernal hell in a menacing smoke of uncertainty — even Medusa’s serpent recoils in terror.
How do I breathe? Lungs fill to the brim and overflow with toxic waste, drowning in a multitude of meaning. The anchor refuses to be my shepherd, guiding me through the path of simplicity. The tenuous grip on reality I slip from, slowly fading into the hazy unconscious state which causes capitulation like a drowsy drug — details of the present blur.
A fleeting existence lurks in absence — a marginal ghost exiled from the realm of humanity. Haven’t you heard? There is no respite for the condemned, only to wander in a vast expanse of numbness. Cloaked in an infernal midnight which preys on the weak, a tyrant rules with an iron fist, relishing the prolongation of suffering. Why do the meaningless shards of memory prick the internal existence, tearing flesh to impede the process of healing?
The problem with a permanent abode of anguish is that it is strengthened by pillars of illusion. An oxymoron. Instability plagues the decaying structure, haunting or lurking in a corner. It is the somber reminder of death. Memento mori. Offensive to the meek. The structure is vacant, as noxious fumes contaminate and render the place inhabitable.
The same teasing apparition appears, unaware of the misery it awakens, which otherwise retreated into an elusive slumber like a fearful mythic creature. But the ghost is painted in mute colours, unseen to the untrained eye during daylight. Darkness consumes clarity like a whale as I grasp for the straws of meaning, distraught. As I see myself in the mirror, I realise I am rendered decrepit and feeble. My mind is deceptively unreliable, leaving me confounded and vulnerable to the bewitchment of a malicious spirit. This elusive apparition refuses to reveal itself in all its dreadful glory. By now, vengeance courses through my weak veins. Only the shrivelled, lifeless form of this demon can satisfy my thirst for revenge. Justice cannot be left in the hands of others, I must seize the reigns myself.
(Featured Image Credit: Eric Kim)
