A Picture

I slowly feel it seeping back in, that despair that will never really leave me. It has tricked me into a false sense of abandonment, and in ignorance I rejoiced in it.

How much will it really take out of me until I find a way to put an end to it? A permanent one, where I will have no worries of ever seeing it again?

It cannot be that this is the way I want to be, for I have fought to do the opposite. The feeling of a heavy burden which evades my conscious mind is pushing against it, wanting to be heard, and I have not the ears to listen to it.

For time out of mind, I have tried to paint what my mind is unable to picture, but which shouts out loud for its chance to be seen. What is it that haunts my sleep? What is it that I cannot see?

It has pushed my character into a dark corner, and the only thing you see is just a shell of what I could have been. How terrible is to want to come out of that dark corner and knowing that I will probably never will?

Hopelessness, uselessness, loneliness and despair… how I wish to take an axe and slash through your darkened meanings, to substitute you for your antonyms, and be done with your eternal melancholy.