Misfit in distraught: Wallows in Nostalgia

Listen to: Personal – Stars

Echoes of shadows that once occupied this land have united in a haunting matter. Each chanting a rhyme of its own, those ghosts have become the best of me. I try to fill chasms with whatever passing thought in my mind, yet I fail miserably.

I seek it, them, us, them; I through them – My most joyful years, my most painful memory, when shall you departure and set me free? I lost more than I can gain. I admit, I destruct and distance those near. But no, those ghosts are evocative in such lingering matter. I blame fate, not I. I blame distance, not I. I blame all, even I.

Dearest of Diaries,

If not yesterday, then it must be today. Today has come, but today is a mere reflection of yesterday’s failures – Perhaps tomorrow, then. And if tomorrow is a duplicate of today, could it be the day after that, or the day after that, or even the week after that, perhaps, a month after that, or maybe, a year after that.

I woke up this morning longing warmth. Maybe it was the cold air filling my bed sheets that penetrated my beats. I could not distinguish that odd sentiment I within me, it felt so awkwardly familiar; I hoped to the demons it was not one of those days.

I walked down the hallways and my feet paced to the speed of surroundings almost stopping me – entirely – the reoccurrence of echoes has wearied my senses out. I sat on the edge of the world, overlooking trees and wondering how lonesome they feel standing up tall without a companion or a lover. Who hears them wallow at night, I wonder.

I took the elevator; I chose to defy the slow motion nature of this damned day. I stopped it halfway through and took the stares instead. I saw a stranger’s stomach acid all on the floor and suddenly my stomach let out an acid of its own to mix with that stranger’s barf and for once – belong.

Yes, yes, pathetic, ironic, idiotic, dramatic, annoyingly dramatic.

I changed my outfits today as often as I remembered to breathe in order to stay living. Perhaps, living is half as good as being alive. Or maybe it is a curse for those damned.

My dearest of diaries and most of agonies,

Shall I tear you a part once your numbered pages are done? What shall I do then, my worries and aches do not have an expiry date, and it seems that the more ache I feel, the more the void widens allowing room for even more failures and departures.

My hopes are that of any misfit; non-extant. I have given up on a country to belong to, a lover to go home to; a success to live up to, or even a simple thought to relate to. I have become my greatest enemy, standing in my own self’s way.

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