I like gloomy days...

 Only if airplanes could really fly me to memories and memoirs, then today this nauseated feeling crying inside me like broken sunglasses staring at the sun wouldn’t be there. The void, the abyss, the way emptiness chases you when you are full, only if my golden hoops knew that they are dangling happier than their wearer ever would be. Such a deliberately complex concept it is, happiness. The presence of it, the absence of it, neutralizing the avoidances and meritocratically praising the eye of it, it’s demeaning on its own to not feel happy, but the happy unhappiness the mirror reflects, I get disgusted to be alive in my soul and my body because of how scarce it is in its existence. The diabolical muse of the strings somewhere playing the orchestra of “Yellow”, and the moaning motive of its polaroid of sadness slowly steps in the paleness of the clouds, you see, even off-white is not white after all. In liking different shades, I forgot what the original felt like. It was a melancholic mix of a happy unhappiness and an unhappy happiness, and I could never really tell the difference. Perhaps, white itself wasn’t always white. The concept of lucidity and absurdity the way I see in coffee mugs and chess boards, in songs and in sunflower bouquets, how do I differentiate the tranquility of a serendipity never felt wholeheartedly except for that one time when I smiled at the abyss full of hope until it shattered my soul by showing nothing but a shadow too gloomy, faceless, defenseless, motionless and was a god-like monster powering through the unseen heart of it in an eternal void laughing silently towards the actual monster who stood before it. I have never felt hope and hopelessness alike since then. Even in the inklings of a thought of the soul it carried, I get confused about the vitality of the musings of my own interpretation, of my own being, of my own beginning and of my own nothing. What use of this thought if all of it consumes me to never be found, and what use of this emptiness if it makes me heavier and heavier until I can no longer lift up myself. What use of this existence if all it can ever dream of is the lack of it.

I don’t know the grotesque feeling I feel every moment I look at the sun shining brightly among the stars, dimming their light antagonizing them, showcasing its liberty and free will at night, it’s like it’s mocking the depth of me as I wait around for the nurse to clean up my wounds I am too afraid to let go. With the bruises and marks, like a seagull by Manchester swirling with the waves, I see still boats and angry sediments all broken and among the fresh leaves of autumn slowly stealing the presence of happiness as I see myself in front of the window shaking my jacket in resonance to the sound of my heartbeats. I am too scared to know that I am physically beating. It’s probably nothing, but I don’t want reminders of the mercy my body has on me for still running. It is trying hard not to fall down as I am giving my all for it to, and I don’t know who is doing the right thing, or why. How can free will ever be mine if I don’t have any will at all to be free. I have scars, invisible scats, something only a miniscule of what I am, which I compare with the trails of eternity, and I wish they reached somewhere. I would like the teal of my veins to be purple. I just like the color, eh? Tainted shoes, painted lips, dirty laundry, broken dishes, stained coffee mugs, and a dusty corridor all wait for me every single evening, counting on me to set them free this moment. Like an old couple walking on a beach, like a yellow ball swimming in the cool sea, I feel a taste of musty effervescence in this scene, so delicate, so sensitive, so critical, and so real. But I wish I was never here, never there. I wish I never were. And when the little life calls me for a parcel of happiness, all I hear is a woe of cry wishing, hoping, begging that it doesn’t arrive on time, because you see, I like gloomy days. 


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