A Sinkable Oblivion
I want to write in venomous adjectives and verbs that once injected would solidify my soon to be eloquent illustration of what exists in the depths of my mind-in regards to the concepts of love I hold hostage in my heart. Truths, that hurt me terribly and leave me wondering why loving me is so hard for someone else and why it is so hard for me? If only I could find the letters that would burst forth from their paper confinement and assemble at attention the words that would allow me to strategically conspire with my emotions. Words that would aid me in letting it all out, letting it all go... God help me please, I need the release, I need to let go, I need to let it all out-I have reached my brink and I am about to overflow.
If only I could find the right color palette that would allow my mind to translate onto canvas what images I see in my head. These images are terrible…terribly beautiful and wonderfully amazing, all too wrong, but oh so right, but yet I want to let them go too… I need to let them go because I am afraid of drowning in the beautiful depths of desire, but instead I swallow the razorblade of silence and bind my thoughts to my soul. All the while I pretend my paintbrush slithers through rich vermillion capillaries, a color I would surely use to ignite the fuse for the final countdown that precedes my demise. Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock…second by second the anticipation over throws the inhibition leaving me alone lost in the rising depths.
I can taste the empty love across my lips and it leaves me parched as I watch the embers of another lost love burn complete while the desperation starts dragging me down into the smoldering remains of what I use to be. Disposing of my imagination and leaving me to remember my fevered dreams. The somber veil of a loveless truth covers my eyes. Am I sinking deeper or is just that the water is rising and I am anchored upon short chain to the seafloor? I don’t know, but it is beautiful still...I’m scared but I am welcoming my oblivion.
I am left tickled by my own fantasies and I want to know what real love is and why it eludes me so? What magic words would I have to chant repeatedly to bind love to me? Which words should fall like a river from my praying lips loud enough to deafen all of my sins like the sound of ten million Hail Mary’s spoken potently off the silken tongues of angles? What do I need to do and who do I need to be to know what love is? Who I am now has only shown me what love isn’t and I am scared that I will never know what it truly is.
Pandemonium is the only friend I have and the few relationships I have been in are like ski slopes only I never quite reach the top and I find the bottom awfully quick and usually flat on my face. I have thought I was in love only to discover it wasn’t love and I am left wondering if I am somehow suffering some inflicted prophecy designed to cause an epidemic between my torrid heart and inquisitive soul…forevermore.
Concepts of love have me lynched by the spider webs of my own fevered dreams. Dreams strewn beneath my feet shattered in a million directions. I only wish to be able to piece them back together but alas, I must admit I am terribly impatient and the silken noose only grows tighter when I try. My reflection in the mirror next to me is terrifying – I see myself choking with the solicitation of my own velvet coated yearnings. Yearnings and desires that slothfully fill my lungs binding my ingénue heart to stories that already had their happy endings. I thought it was love that was supposed to hang gracefully, catching light like stain glass and showering stains of pleasing emotions upon all who receive it, but instead all I see is the taut silken noose around only my neck.
That desire to know love and be loved is like a perfect drug and it arrives effortlessly in all the hearts of those who yearn for it…always on time as predicted. This desire has a way of infiltrating our consciousness leaving our senses satisfied by the intoxication, making us addicts from the beginning. I was told that true love moves in a graceful motion like the ocean and even the stormy waters are always survived because of the truth that exists in real love, but I haven’t felt that effect yet. I have felt the lie of lust that enchants our perceptions that tethers us to void physical satisfaction in a masquerade of hallucinations. I don’t want the illusion or the hallucination anymore I want the real thing. What does the gaze of love look like and would love’s eyes illustrate my reflection? I can’t help but be infatuated by capturing its expression and imprinting it on the back of my eyelids.
It has been said that love’s lips are defined by a labyrinth of soft cracks like veins on petals of crimson roses-provocative and kissable-yet wholesome and so full of bright truth it seems as though the light could blind you. Love is suppose to exist as a real truth but through our materialistic virtue and constant need for instant gratification, it stands instead, like a surreal statue on viewing in the Louvre, for all to look at but never touch, never be within reach. Becoming a fantasy of our deepest longing- a figment we can only crave to be real...and I am still left to hoping while sinking to oblivion in the uncharted depths of an unknown sea that there is still the slightest possibility of true love finding me…