I hate sunrise

I remember nothingness as it seized my being into this voodoo doll of cascade of mourning smiles and loud silences. Walking to the mountains, clipping the fingernails with my teeth beside the campfire, the hollow stare at the white snow, the breeze of allegory of the stained flakes that pierced the sunshine the same way the abyss does to me. You see, I have always liked mountains for this scene. You see a sunrise; I see a murder. Who said sunrise was a beginning was perhaps a coward looking for hope. But the reality of existence is one of non-existence: one cannot fathom a sin of not living, and yet he lives a dead life every day. He is rotten with every sunrise. The depth of loneliness he feels in those bright black walls – all shining through his epiphanies and lifelessness – the closed eyes that see life more than the open ones, I am disgusted by everyone who calls darkness horrible. They don’t feel his honesty, they don’t feel his breathing beats and they don’t feel the rusty smile that stands at the back of my door silently waiting for me to fall asleep as I bask in the glory of its essence. The sun murders this friend of mine whose hands I can feel caressing me, whose negotiations reeks of intelligence: he hides in corners and closed doors, because the light will gulp the whole of him, and he can no longer bear this friendship. 

And as I wake up, the meal of pancakes and sweet syrup with a coffee just to remind me of him, a surge of void and absence lurks into me because in the backpack I packed, in the spectacles I wore, in the pen in my hand, in the buses I take, in the streets I walk, I am engulfed by him. Happily. I am the living embodiment of him, who runs to shadows and big black walls, and in every fragment of the pavements that leads me to my room at night, I wonder of the words, the tunes, the calls, and the piece of fine art hung right behind me. I see it; I smile. A shadow takes me away. I am liberated. No walls anymore, no presence, no absence, it’s just existence. It’s me and space, waiting for the beats, the smiles, the honesty. And suddenly, the space illuminates, I see bright faces, bright scars, the scarring smiles and the symbols of hypocrisy all around. I can hear the sound of their smiles; I can see the smirk of their noise. With all of them cheering with their wine glasses at evening balls and parties discussing justice, they praise the warmth of the sun. 

Oh, dear life, how can you be so naive, join me in hating sunrise. 

I can see you disguising yourself from even knowing me. After all, in front of people all around, knowing a lunatic must feel embarrassing, disgusting even. But I can no longer appreciate sunrise knowing all well of the life it snatches and throws away all in the weary memory of a morning hypocrites craved. Have you ever lived the darkness? It’s all yours, there is no space smothering you in your sleep or faces staring at you in your hopes. The eternal void of presence exists within you, and you are still scared of it? You are scared of darkness? How pathetic! How pathetic can you be! Can’t you see the sublime paradise it has created just so you could be you when agonizing spotlights and visible despair is not being cast on you? Why do you want to see your despair when you can pretend to be blind in this darkness, why do you cherish this despair and lifelessness only to smile at a stranger who doesn’t even care if you exist. What do you really want to see when the sun rises? The mountains, the sea, the beauty, or the streets full of people living life while you dread out in melancholy wishing today didn’t exist—wishing you didn’t exist. What’s worse: to be the happy guy who walks up to children doing magic tricks or the stranger who helps a lady cross the street and then walks home, in sheer pain and anguish, making a slice of bread just to see the constellations pass him by, and wonder, if really, there was true happiness, who would decide if I even deserved it. Tricksters deceive people, I deceive myself because I tell myself that I will get there. In reality, I don’t want the sun to rise. 

But it will rise. And I will trick myself, every day. I can’t let it win. 
 

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