Lightness or Heaviness
12:25 am.
Midnight has never felt so crowded in spite of being alone whilst seated at a table that serves not a purpose of catering a happy complete family for dinner, but a purpose of being a recollection of raised voices, foul words, and thrown objects. My mind has never been so loud that it is forced to be quiet, yet this force winds up encouraging the noise instead of silencing it. It’s escalating, worse to worse, to worse, to worse, to worse, to worse, to worse, to worse, to worse, to worse, to wor… I’ll be damned if I make it through the night without submitting myself to insatiable self-destructing habits. Am I bound to return to my past? Have I done all I could only to be brought back by no one else other than me?
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Lightness or Heaviness? Lightness, the state of being like a feather, letting the wind take you wherever. You either fly higher, or get blown to the ground, or you’ll be placed in the middle of the sky and the ground. Realistically speaking, you cannot stay in the midst of the two without elevating or lowering for at least a few inches. But you are lacking substance, too carefree I’d say. Heaviness, the weight signifying that it is worth something, for the heavier the more value it holds. As the name gives it away, though, heaviness comes with the awareness of what life beholds. All the good and the bad. You are a witness to the good, and a victim of the bad. A catch. To feel or not to feel. What would you choose?
It is a question neither my mind or heart can answer. For once, they’re on the same page, and they agree that they’re clueless. They are not in conflict per usual but in harmony, but what good will it do, agreeing to holding the quality of uncertainty overruling the body, nearly reaching the soul, and neither can do anything about it. Will they succumb to the rotting vines wrapped around them? For they believe that is what fate has for them?
Just what will alleviate whatever poison this is within me? It’s as if it was swallowed by my very own throat, injected into my veins, turned into a portion of my organs and countless veins on my brain, pasted across my bones, and slipped right under my skin. It feels as though it is a poison impossible to cure or slow down. Say less, my words have reached their limit and my heart has run dry, hand me the poison and I’ll pour it all over my body as the final hurrah. I’ll quicken my death, and the poison will die with me. Let my body decompose and be one with the ground, and wait until the earth finds a way to make use of my remains that have been mixed with the soil. If my purpose is far more valuable when dead, please, do not attempt to revive me. I will happily carry out my true purpose as my body rests. Please, do not grieve me for long, as either living or dying transmits a strong sense of indifference. Neither matters to me, not now, at the very least.
