A Season of Winter

I miss quiet moments with myself, when my wit creates prose, not solutions. In these minutes of solitude, I'd free-write something like "You put the art in artificial" while listening to music redolent of my tears, like  Stelle E Luna  or  Hanniou . My mind wouldn't fester at the thought of pending status or wage claims or mending some  half-assed entrepreneur's operational dysfunction at minimum wage. I'd exist in the context of my craft. I'd be an artist again.  I consider every person I've ever known, loved, and lost—all those chapters of my life that ended with me hanging from the cliff. I gaze at this broad selection of muses, all of whom I've revived with lyricism. That's when I realize that the boy I miss most is myself.  I used to be the artist, before I became the concept of some equation, a variable to be solved. I used to feel love; now I feel myself yearn for it. Part of me feels at home here. And part of me thinks home is something...

I think I confide in literature as one confides in a friend. My screams are inaudible on these pages. Here, pain can cinder without catching flame. I know the pressure of meeting absence where I once found closure as my words know the pressure of my pen. I have reached a point in my life where I am one with isolation.  My spirit feeds on betrayal, and it has for some time. When I breathe in, it isn't air. It's animosity. I envy people who say they hate no one. I envy children because they're innocent. I envy Christians, too, because they pretend to forgive. I can't even do that.  All this emotion, all this rage, and yet the only person I wish death upon is myself. If only because I don't want to be here when the idealism dies. I'm not suicidal, but sometimes I lie in bed with my eyes open and imagine myself passing from this life. I'd die alone, but I'd die quietly. Until then, I confide in my prose, for my prose is my expression.