Wilted

:: wilted ::

I was feeling tragically poetic this morning. As I sat at the void deck, waiting for my boss's car to beam its imposing lights round the bend, waiting to hear the familiar growl of the Audi engine, waiting for the day to throw its blindfold around my eyes, pushing me into a black oblivion of robotic function - I suddenly felt sad.

Sad and sore and young and hopeless.
Not just because I'm still nursing a broken heart.
Not just because I'm the cause of my ruined relationship.
Not just because of this love.

But because the ghost of my old nihilism - I used to embrace the fulfillment of nothingness - was threatening to come back. The sun was a gentle cloak of butter at 7.58; the morning breeze was bringing with it fragmented melodies: a child laughing, chattering of people, the sound of a horn or a hurried footfall. Life. In its splendor; in its prime. And there I was feeling as though I would never know happiness, that I was never meant to know happiness - all my old fucked-ups, threatening to erupt, waiting to take over.

If there is a greater point to pain I feel I must discover it. Melancholy was never my Holy Grail, but I've been given an Excalibre of ghastly power. And yet there will be no battle. Time and Circumstance are my brothers-in-arms, knights at the same table. One day they will intervene, but one day some day, not now, not this moment. And where is my King?

I amuse myself. Tragic poetry smudged with distant mythologies sprinkled liberally with my own lingustic pain. Tres pathetic, if you ask me.

If only life could continue its way in a dichotomy, in which the human nature is conditioned to know in the first place. A dialectic of equals. Good and bad. Black and white. Innocence or Evil. Truth or lie. But no. We seem to enjoy existing in the many shades of grey, and like moths to a flame we seem inclined to the very things that would burn us, kill us. Masochism at its most poetic. Maybe it's just me.

***

I dread going home. What's happening?

***

There's a chain reaction. What you say, what you do, what you don't say, what you don't do. A chain reaction to pain. Is there hope, not to wilt?