A Soul Drenched in Agony

Listen to: Dustin O’Halloran, Opus 37.

The moon has shifted a little, and is about to fade away into vast heavens. Clouds move gently towards the chirping of birds as though they want to engulf them. The stars, however, refuse to shine. For they have grown out of this sickened earth and traveled afar in search of a new land to mystify.

The weeping soul of a demonized woman is nothing but a mere mask she wears within. Humans and common courtesy only meet when humans agree to only wear masks on the outside; sheltering themselves from a peripheral world. Nevertheless, that is not the case with this woman in specific. She has indeed grown out of her desperate wallows and misleading thoughts. What was once the most common, and occupying thought in her head, is now a traveling cloud that has almost emptied all its rain within her and soon to departure.

Her demons have taken over her soul and like every other time; she has no control over herself but to witness as she falls apart – tragically. Her countless wonders and tiresome thoughts have rested upon her soul, and yet another night is spent with the owls of lonesome and forlorn.

Her sin is not anew, for she has been forever guilty. However, to realize something and to commit it – are two entirely different states of mind that only meet in one breaking point to imbalance the cartilage of hope. Nonetheless, she has become anew. She never stopped praying for her other self to rest in peace, but this other self of hers has an impish, haunting ghost. She enjoy its company; the ghost. Metaphorically speaking, that is.

For years and years proverbs were passed on to generations and were told to her. Alas, her soul is too deaf to hear cries of the past and her eyes are too blind to see an obscure future. Those thoughts of hers; she is certain, will be the end of her one day. The question is not how, or where, but when.

To live within each line of her words has been her only asylum. Indeed, she is nothing but a lost soul that roams this earth in search of a sanctum. Hitherto, never did she peek inside of her screaming soul to see the sanctum within it; strangled, silenced, and forsaken.

Her dreams are the poisonous ivy of time. Those wishes of her, they are of a young maiden that merely wants a peaceful mind. Thus far, she craves pain and the endless struggle of her days. She has a sense of belonging to agony. More or less, she knows no other companion in this limited life but ache and feeds only on poisonous ivy.

Wasted and inebriated is her mind at awe. Her acumen is poor and drained of strength. Ah, the weeping soul of a lost woman, so tempting, so tiring, so deceiving, so secrete. Myriad days pass as she involuntary sets back by standing put. Her footsteps are washed away by passing sand and wind – that is how fragile her path truly is.

“No more” she utters. Ironically, fate screams with a frightening thunder and bolting lightening that she does not set the rules. She; just like any other lost case in this world, has no power over fate. How could she, anyway. She has no control over her desires and vulgar aspirations.

Common courtesy always wins. Thus, she will always fail – because her nature is to defy nature itself. The stubbornness she has is surely genetic. Somehow, it resembles the ugliness she sees every time she sets her eyes on mirrors.

Instead of smashing those reflecting mirrors, she lets their beams refract inside her, and plunge the wounds deeper within. Scars are a work of art, she believes. One day, she knows those scars will be her source of pride. Until then – she seeks solitude in a cave one step away from fantasy and one step back from reality.

2011

04/16

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