It’s about time I wrote you this, the most honest, arbitrary piece of writing I could ever conjure up that’ll basically sound like a suicide note but you might as well call it that for the end is drawing near. the penumbra of death looms by, covering, killing a part of me.
Now before you assume quickly that I’m on the verge of a physical demise, I am not. I am young, physically capable, and healthy enough to continue living for a grand many years, provided no interruption in the form of illness, freak accidents, others’ or my own hands. Oh but an illness I feel myself slowly developing. The virus of melancholia multiplies by the hundreds, gnawing violently, viciously, ferociously on my insides that I start to develop physical symptoms. No I’m not sick. I’m just bizarrely distorted.
I can’t imagine leaving my comfort zone, thrown into a place far different from what I’ve come to know. No more of daily poetry, no more nightly coffee in the company of heavenly literati. No more dreams of good looks, no more isolated raves. No more weekly books that shield me from anxiety. No more mother to kid around, to discuss sympathetically and study signs as we gaze at stars. No more gang who each has gone their own paths leaving me stranded in the middle.
Lethargy eats at me regularly and all I would miss have left me hollow, hollow even more, wallow forever in my languor. If I could only shut myself out for just a little bit longer maybe I’ll emerge feeling better.
But no, here I am writing while coffee withdrawal blinds me with a headache pouring my broken nostalgic heart out the last droplets of ink blotting out on my notebook paper. my head freewheeling but lazy unmotivated, I guess I’m just too depressed and it just aided the flow. Goes to show what intense sadness can do. Hey, who knows? Maybe in this new, sad, terrifying chapter of my life, I’d bloom – a flower blooming in desolation.