Meaningless Little Shit

   

     Has there ever been a reason for this insistent longing within one’s chest? If it were to burst free into one single mellifluous sound, would it truly be as luminous as small shards of the moon? As charming as the last breath of our dying sun; the gentle, soft voice of a bird ensnared for all its living days to a cage with no soul? 

     There is a bittersweet perfection in the pain of a simple wanting. It’s a childlike wish to want, filled slowly with nostalgia of a younger, purer mind. There is nothing so ingenuous as the want, and the ability to. It’s the pure, lustful, raw want that has brought me from my once sane mind to take arms and, with words alone, attempt to bring a gnarled, twisted sense of me to you. 

      It is overbearing; the pure physical lack of this significant other half is so sweetly bewitching to my very soul, and these thoughts simply must be spilled like the fragments my dreams that often tantalize me in the midst of waking. It is the dreams and the want--the seductive, poisoned want mixed with such pure intentions of the dreams created and fixated upon the mind’s watchful eye. 

     There has never been anything so heart wrenching for me to bear upon such a waning soul as mine. Unscarred and yet beaten beyond recognition, this wanting leaves me thirsty and dying, much like the ocean’s waves scratch at the sandy stretches of land like bloody hands, searching desperately--begging--for a release from within the pool of misery they have been banned to. 

    And why banned? Has some god above forcibly placed them aside themselves, so that their plethora of wails and splintering cracks from a slowly maddening mind are nothing more than the lapping of the water upon the earth? Perhaps this want is simply nothing but the howls of keys pressed like petals under my fingers as I play notes to songs I have long since grown used to. Perhaps what the heart longs for is nothing short of love, and maybe in the depths of our minds, it is out of this love that want arises.  

     What it has longed for is this freedom, much like this love, to be free and soar the untouched planes upon this earth that man nor woman has ever dreamed of; to taste the wretched longings of the alienated world with wings of words, not of flesh and bone. Be still my heart, and rejoice in the being. My wanting is nothing more than the screams I produce when fingers of hope splay across a piano; when in vain I hold a pen to the paper, or if I took the sharpness of the world to my flesh. This is nothing different than the want.