»To Love Is to Be Destroyed«

 

There is a loneliness that defies all expression. One so deep even words can not solace it's internal hunger. It's more than an emotion, it's like a second organ blossoming into existence beside your heart. Its sluggish beating merely imitates the fluttering of your own soul. The depression accompanying the hollowness inside your body is difficult to explain, to those who've not experienced it. Because it's razor cold and blazing hot all in the same shuddering breath. It freezes your tears upon your cheeks, right before it thaws them down into stinging pools down your skin.

  Is it tragedy, or merely the fragility of the human conscience to instinctively crave the presence of it's own kind? Not only that, but are we eternally sentenced to find the pieces of ourselves that walk around in the forms of those around us? Injustice does not satisfy its needs there, for not just anyone can damper the thudding aches that echo down the passages of the soul. Not anyone can quiet the constant humming of the heart... It's like searching for a single cure in a room full of medication.

  However, the worst hollowness accompanies what's left behind. What's left behind of you, when you find those pieces in a crowd, and they just walk away. It seems to be a constant companion, the betrayal of humanity. Is it really worth the heartbreak and renewed emptiness, when they're gone? How could such a pain be worthwhile? How could such devastation, and brutality, ever be a worth giving away your trust to someone who will rip it from arms? This world is not a fairytale, as much as we might try to pretend it is. Who can really blame those whose trust in human beings is devastatingly shattered. Maybe it's they who've woken up, in a world that was not what they had idealized.

  I wonder if this is my test. To watch the people I love most in this finite world descend into depths I cannot extend myself towards. In my heart, I feel as though I've experienced more than most would in a lifetime. Yet, it doesn't seem enough. The stones just keep on coming, the floods continuously pounding against my shores. I sit here and watch so many submerge under the darkness, and yet I cannot relinquish myself to their fates.  Despite the whisperings of my heart.

  I long for a silence, and absence of feeling that I will never have. I long to be free of the emotions and pain I'm confined to within this mortal body. Yet, I cannot rid myself of them. I cannot extend myself towards others in search of help, because no help can fill the divide the ones who mattered left inside me.

 Part of me longs to once again, for a brief moment, feel dependent upon someone. Yet, the consequences of such an action are to numberless to contemplate for long. In the end, it is they who will break me; and it is I who will have to put the bones and sinews back together. 

I am not a god.

I bleed like any other.

  So, here at the end, I must acknowledge that yet another one is gone. That they will not be the last in the long succession either. Is it easier to live without love? Or is it easier to live by that, and be broken. It is a question without an answer. A meaning so lost and diluted it has lost all potential for reason. Because how can you avoid what must come to pass, how can you detour the inevitability of finding out what you already knew.

That humanity is drunk in it's own fervor. That it is sick. That it is heartbreaking. That there is nothing anyone will do or say that can change it. Because, how can you fight against something so strong? How can you accept a world with no light? How can you possibly begin to understand the depths in which it can rake you against the coals.

We are alive.

Yet,

It is not enough.