Choice

 The wind is chilly. It brushes off of me in almost utter silence, but the vows of a filthy integrity it breaks ever so often speaks to me of a hellish paradise. It’s funny even, how the embrace of wind is a means of ingenuity, of a broken sanity that almost feels like getting better. As the leaves channel their inner turmoil with nothing but a woe of despair rebelling against the wind, the instantaneous satisfaction of fighting against it knowing that they are never going to win, do you wonder if winning was ever their purpose? The branches speak of desolation with every swift, with every roar across the road screeching in the darkest alleys, cars whose tires have travelled the sane reality of the world, the tremor across the bushes as it passes by, who gave anybody the right to experience something, or anything, or nothing? It’s a dumb perception, honestly. People walking in sweaters, the concrete below me steady and cold, and yet, in between the walls of a rusty room rests a sense of apathy that was chosen by someone. The disguise of insanity painted in black which deafens the noise of the world but could never get rid of the cold. There is this metallic chill across the room, which looks at faces in corners made up of paper towels and opened shoes, a figure of a masked being which doesn’t exist but wants you to feel it, and along all the emergency exit signs in subways and parks, the door never opens. After all, if you have a moment for making a choice, it was never an emergency in the first place. You wait and wait; the whiskey glass emptying, the cigarette burning to ashes and the sleeplessness eating you from the inside. But there is always a choice, isn’t there? Don’t look at the glass, breathe through the ashes, sleep with your eyes open. You are always making a choice, aren’t you? 

You see, you don’t house misery or reside in it. You are the misery. But how long till this abstraction holds up? How long till the wind travels to get to you in your awful state and you fall down like an autumn leaf? Where would you go? Have you made the choice yet? Are you fighting against the misery or yourself? The trepidation that makes you shatter the glass door surrounding you, do you close the door to confine yourself or did you choose a glass door because you wanted to be violated? Everything you do seems paradoxical. Why can’t you ever know? I wonder if that was never your plan at all. You like the state of nothingness, the pendulum that you are, there is hypocrisy in your existence even. Critical, somewhat detrimental, but you know that wearing a white sweater can never make you cleaner, it’s quite the opposite. And yet you prefer wearing white. As a sign of rebellion, you say? I think of it as cowardice. This constant chain of assumptions and apprehensions you have about how you make a choice that keeps you awake every single day, you making the bed, you making the table, you making a cup of tea, all these mundane mornings of you trying to find a will to stay. That’s not enough to keep me or you here. You know it, yet you try. Like a stray dog running towards a happy treat, a child wailing for cotton candy, a man desperate in love, a theist wanting answers from the god, like a lunatic residing in lunacy. You disgust me, quite frankly. And it aches my conscience, because I never wanted to choose you to begin with.