The overdose of solitude has made time feel like a slow IV machine - slowly dripping down, supposedly giving you nourishment but feels like a pain waiting for it all to be done. Currently being at the near end of my adolescence and being so unwantedly close to opening the door of adulthood, it feels painful to tend to my past wounds and let the stitches be free. The voices tell me to let Death beg for my hand, and not just go desperately running for it, for they are not worth my time.
So what is worth my time, when surely we are born to die? Every minute here, every breath we take, every movement inevitably leads to our own ending - why does Death have to be painted with such an ugly colour? Paint it with every colour of the rainbow why don't you, since Death has seen so much more than we ever will.
This abstract depiction of reality seeps through our fingers and leaves none but few grains of thought. Thoughts that lead us as individuals to our own sea of tranquility. How blissful! The sea has expanded beyond belief for me - filled with the creativity it savours. There are different colours, emotions that I can grasp and hug to find meaning of life within, as we all know the meaning of life is not an open book, sat in a library for hundreds of decades - it is ambiguous, euphoric and gains meaning with TIME.
They call me imaginative for thinking inside of my prison of woe - holding the key firmly in my hand and writing until the bars become thin enough to crawl out. I am still waiting, but I will write to you when I am free... I promise.
If I were to see my younger self I wouldn't send an obituary or a set of flowers - I would simply slap them and beg them to wake up. For when we both die at the end, I will shake their hand, not as friends and not as enemies but as strangers with a different versions of memories. "You're so mature for your age", they say - well take a wild guess, I forced myself to grow up so that I could face true reality at such a miniscule age. I put on a clown nose, coloured makeup and put on a silly show to entertain the masses, to satisfy the notion that I was happy with the clock ticking ever so quickly.
With the clocks still ticking I find myself alone, with nothing but a near empty bottle of straight whisky and then a toilet filled with nothing but cheap regret. With no one around I shout and confide at my bathroom walls - they don't feel, they don't love me - but at least they don't judge. It has been 7 years.
The psychologist that I have tells me while the world is a horrible because of humanity and it is our own job to help - life isn't a free thing, it has purpose and drive. A question to ask ourselves would be: Were we ever free in the first place? From my eyes, there's uncertainty from a chance.
Simply I am angry yet so sorry. I grew up when all I wanted was more time to hug the sun, no matter how painful it was lying to myself. The fragments of the grandfather clock has shattered and time as I now know it ceases to serve it's base function.
Thank you & goodbye.