Sometimes I look back and read the words I wrote.
Sometimes they seem like they are not mine at all
I read them once, I read them again
trying to regain the state of mind and heart
I wrote them in.
Each word is a memory
a reflection of a thought and feeling of my being.
I’m reading myself out of my words
but it’s not me.
Like a mosaic of thought and emotion I feel,
a mosaic whose parts are not always seen.
a blur, a haze often it seems like it’s all a dream.
Sometimes I feel so…
I will remember
how you made me laugh
before the sky turned grey
and the winter came
that never went away.
I will keep
the pleasant memories near
to light the past that came,
the future that will never be.
Then the present,
now the past
a stormy days
full of dark skys.
was never again the same,
full of sun and rain.
The pain your actions,
and your words gave,
was the pain from
which I gained.
Memories of a life
that once was,
through different eyes.
Heart was bleeding but the mind refused…
“Oh my dear, but it’s just your inner mess you are looking at.”
Snobbish, all-knowing voice purring in my ear.
Inner mess, is that what they call it these days?
Diminishing the actual state of affairs, giving it that bitter-sweet taste of deceit.
Sunny and bright full of life, furniture shining all new with delight.
No stains on the woollen rug, chandeliers without dust, all felt like a dream once upon a time.
After the dreams came crashing down, every centimetre of that shining pearl turned black with the masked delight of prolonging the agony of my tormented mind while…
There is a beginning in every ending,
an ending in every beginning.
The truth we refuse to accept,
that everything we know and love
will one day end.
The abyss of ending
for most people is too much to take.
The fear is born out of the unknown
grabbing the threads of the belief
that give refuge from the idea
of not existing any more,
that one day we will be left alone,
from the loss, we don’t want to endure,
from the oblivion that is coming for sure.
From a very young age, I became aware that loss is…
Walking contradiction of sense and sensibility. Literature, art, philosophy, nature, hiking and photography 🦋