Stinging sabers of retrospect haunt me with their piercing cries of regret. Mired in a sadness I can neither explain nor understand—oppressive as a heavy rain—I drag myself through it and try to decipher its origin.
I hunger to write as well as others but feel my sophomoric style will never transform into what I know it can be. I crave to transcribe my soul and it’s yearnings but words never serve. I wish I can download my feelings into the words I long to formulate. Like waves washing over me crashing into my being. If only I could get past the breaking point and out into the calm seas where I can float atop the swelling ripples that want to become a part of me and that pluck on the strings of my existence.
Remorse is palpable. Like that of a lost love—a love that could never be but yet haunts my soul with its frayed edges of remembrance. I want to take it out and visit it like a child gazing into a snow globe. Then my brain comes to a screeching halt as reality slaps me in the face.
On the outskirts of my musings lives a voice alive with the reality of the world I wish to avoid. The delusions from which I am trying desperately to escape but keep clutching at my feet as I try and make my way through the imaginary hatch that I’m convinced will close as soon as I’m through— like the doors of Narnia.
Soon the soothing sounds of bed will call to me and peace will come at last as I drift off to sleep into a more beautiful world with toasted snickers and marshmallow balloons.