I cannot write without getting overwhelmed with everything that surrounds me. I cannot write and it has stopped hurting me. Oh, the noise, so much noise. Is there one place I can run to? I ran, I ran like a mad dog, trying to escape the madness, the chaos, people, their complaints, their self. I ran, it followed. "Faster, faster" I cursed and kicked myself, the faster I ran, the closer it got. What the fuck? my brain failed to comprehend. "It’s in your head, asshole", the heart gently slapped it on my face. What? how does one get away from that? Run from their own physical self? I’m exhausted. All the things, beautiful so beautiful that they hurt have stopped hurting me. The quiet of the night, the smell of the wet mud after the rains, being caressed by a lover, stealing loved ones away from city madness for a picnic in the winter sun, the sea of stars in the dark of the night, reading in solitude, a glass of golden whiskey in the wee hours of the night with your favourite song playing on loop. It has stopped hurting me. The older I get, the more whites and blacks seem to merge into one another, the lines get more blurred, the more I cannot separate rights from wrongs. The world spouts platitudes and I have no heart and energy to pretend. To listen, to care, to acknowledge, even to respect. Let me be. Let me fizzle out into oblivion and I promise I’ll come back better equipped to deal with y’all and the world. I hope, I do.
P.S. Who knew you could be your biggest and the toughest enemy?
