a poetic commentary on nothing

Autumn winds whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you waltz alongside the daydreams of leftover hopes and aspirations.

The melancholy of your solitude has become a comfort and as you sit in the corners of society, you find yourself yearning for the ache that only comes with loneliness.

It is in these moments that the despair of vulnerability tugs at your core, a constant battle between the desire to allow love and affection break down the ever-thickening, ever-fortified walls of your psyche.

It is these moments that the soldiers of your spurn come to do battle with your own self, an unrelenting and destructive war that leaves you undone and utterly ruined. You revel in the ruin, and it is from the rubble that you are elevated.

It is by the pain of survival that you are reminded of what sweetness it is to die.

What irony is there that it was by love you were destroyed, and it is by lack of love that you are still wholly destroyed. What fairness is there in the thing that makes so many whole and yet keeps you broken still?

What justice is there for the wolf? What vengeance is there for the hunter? What graces have been afforded the beast? Who are those, being but a mere sheep, to dictate what is and is not to be gifted to those greater than they?

Gods and goddesses must learn to love from afar, must learn to survive in solitude, for it is in the alone that they are reminded of their deityship. It is in the rejection of the mortal that they are made strong, that they are made mighty.

What rarity it is to see the royals find fulfillment within their fleshly vessel? What mysteries may be discovered when such a joining of celestial bodies occurs upon the planes of the human?

You stand upon the cusp of the planets and galaxies and behold the beautiful rot of the world. The black mold of sickness and plague an artist’s signature upon the green and blue of the waters that bring life to the waning soul.

It is as Death has his way with the body of the earth that you reminded you are but a temporal whisper that dissipates like smoke against the strong currents of air. A single breath and you are naught but the shadow of a memory.

It is in the sweet release of sleep alone that you find the beginnings of solidity and surety of survival. You fall into the dark water of slumber and come into the universe to which you belong. It is the universe of nothings, the universe of emptiness and you burn for it as one burns for the touch of a lover.

In your little bubble of existence, you consider those before you as they complete their menial tasks that provide them with the facade of purpose. They are content, the sheep, but the wolf cannot join them. The wolf can only sleep and wish for the greatness kindling deep within to spring forth as the rushing of water from the rock of Moses.

But the greatness does not come, for the cold reality that screams in your face every moment of every day reminds you that you are the same as the sheep. You are without greatness and only wish for it so as to make your suffering worthful. You force yourself to find some reason behind the what. You must discover the why, or else you shall be unraveled.

But you are not the god. You are not the goddess. You are the sheep. Tiny, insignificant and without value. You are the small one that dreams big, because you live little, and the big dreams only come to kiss you as you sleep.

And so you sleep.

Published by eli schamane

wrote a book - now I wanna become famous, yo.

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