To what do I owe this inundation of unpalatable sentiments?
Have I committed a sin so incorrigible and unatonable that I am to be allowed no reprieve from the inherent suffering of life?
Years have passed since my last confrontation with these sentiments.
My experience with them is negligible.
They only arise in conjunction with my periodic rumination on the white rose which has recently blossomed in the realm of death and depravity.
What strikes me as queer is the absence of the aforementioned sentiments in the physical presence of the said biological life form.
As the boisterous storm refuses to abate, and the impenetrable blackness of the sky lingers overhead, my tenacity lies deceased on the nutrient-deprived grass.
Despite the dreams bequeathed to me by the minds of the hopeless—now long-dead, I know that salvation shall never arrive.
Myriad implorations for reinforcements have been uttered, but they have fallen on deaf ears.
As I kneel on the grass, forlorn and resoundingly defeated, the rain incessantly bombards my cranium, furiously bathing my face with liquid punishment.
The silhouettes of my inevitable demise tower against the barely discernible horizon.
The white rose—once so very filled with vitality and innocence—has capitulated to the battering rain.
I offer to the sky acrimonious lamentations, and feel the serpent of solitude creep up my body, and subsequently strangle me.
I am circumscribed my adamant darkness; the light of the sun no longer permeates the atmosphere, for it too is defunct.
There is no hope.
The morrow is barren of promises.
Death is the only inevitability.
When I look at you, I feel not effervescence; I I feel not contentedness; I am imbued with not glee.
No. When I look at you, it is as though the ground beneath me metamorphoses into nothing; the air circumscribed about me transmutes into cyanide; the stars are pulverized; and the universe itself implodes.
When my mind begins to ruminate on you, my heart is ripped from my thoracic cavity, and the shell that remains disintegrates into an ash pile of despondency.
The look you convey to me through your eyes only exacerbates these unpalatable sensations.
You always look at me with pity and disdain.
It is strange to realize that in my infatuated stupor I have subjectively covered you with a thick veil of immaculacy.
It is sometimes arduous to associate human qualities with someone I perceive to be of greater value.
You do not, nor will you ever realize this.
That is much too bad.
And what of the vagabond who searches the barren wasteland for a single white rose?
His journey was rife with disappointment, and the toll on his mind was unbearable.
The journey yielded little more than withered hope and broken dreams.
But still, he ventured on.
His resolve was unparalleled, and his fortitude was great.
He swore to endure his adversities, no matter how formidable.
He resolved to sacrifice all.
He affirmed that he would neglect all else.
And all for a single white rose.
For the grievous crimes committed, an aptly draconian punishment was chosen as a consequence.
An emulation of perfection; mirror-image of the immaculate beauty.
Differences have yet to be reconciled: greetings to be exchanged.
Forgive me for gazing: entrancement is the reason.
Forgive me for caring: nostalgia tells me to.
Jaggernaut: The man who wrote this could be my guru. -
Misanthropy Is A Natural Reaction To People’s Deplorable Behaviour.
By: MindBodySpirit | Written on September 24th, 2011
If you are an honest, decent person it’s very difficult not to be a misanthrope. For me, misanthropy was not a choice, it was a simple, natural response to the way most…
Forever bound to the leash that you hold firmly in your hands, I can never stray too far.
When I attempt to venture out into the world, you summarily pull on the leash and reel me back into your territory.
You have subjugated me, and for reasons far too nefarious to reveal.
Freedom is a delicacy that I shall never taste: not even when death’s embrace reaches me.
I am in love not with a woman, but an idea of one.
Why is the darkness so soothing?
Why is it comforting to have its emaciated hands caress you to sleep?
Is it because it does not allow you to see the horrors of the world?
No: it is because it does not allow the world to see the horror that you have become.
I am destroying my own home because it benefits a stranger.
“Though the world has crumbled, a few entities remain standing in spite of great adversities; they are the last vestiges of the past world, and they carry the torch of those now deceased in the hope that they can rebuild what once was.”
This is a small portion of a novel that I am attempting to write at the moment. I do not wish to sound supercilious, but regardless of the fact that the novel is quite literally trash, this paragraph is an impressive production of my feeble mind.
The brilliance of your beauty is unparalleled even by the celestial bodies that illuminate the night sky.
Your voice, the resonant lullaby that provides unfailing consolation, is capable of assuaging the fears of even the most petrified soul.
Superficially, biologically, chemically, and physically, you are a human being;
But from my perspective, you are nothing less than the incarnation of an angel.
Oh how I have longed to lay witness to such unmistakable beauty!
I have dreamt of the day that I would be caressed by the hands of something so holy: so pure!
But alas, I am nothing more than a mere peasant to you—undeserving of your presence.
And thus, my plight is of a quintessential nature of unrequited affection.
You, my dear, have left an indelible impression upon my weary mind.
I am sorry to say that I have not had such a profound effect on your life.
I am aware that I am nothing more than an evanescent nuisance in your life; and quickly my existence shall flee from your memories.
Regardless of the aforementioned unfortunate fact, I shall remember you and your uniqueness even after I take my final breath.
Writing is the medium I use to express the emotions that are entrenched within my abstract mind to others. Writing is my panacea. If I did not write, then my soul would have withered ages ago.
Though my written prose does contain scintillas of reality, it usually explores worlds impossible to venture into in reality. The prospect of living through implausible events is exhilarating to me: and precisely the reason why I am enamored by this process.
To others, my writing is inane; my statements are tenuous; my stories lack content; and my tone is not consistent. But I do not care if my writing is terrible. I only concern myself with it if it fails to comfort my battered mind.
I am not a professional writer, so I know that my prose is littered with mistakes. But I believe that what matters the most is the message conveyed by a written piece of work, not the way it is formatted.