Tragedy of Wanderer:

Scribbling:

 

“It was all too familiar a feeling, a feeling he had been awaiting for long, a feeling of a forsaken evening, awaiting for the night, awaiting for to find a place to hide, to hide beneath the veil of desolation, isolation, desisting the tears to put on the vulgar display of vulnerability, trails of which haunts him all through the day. For despite knowing there is no escape one cannot but attempt one last time, and alas! What awaits is not the escape but a trap in an abyss, abyss that one considers sacred, abyss which consisted of broken bits and pieces; and yet, where one could finally look at himself and feel at home. Home, where darkness flourishes and there’s no mocking of devilish days, where he could wander around naked and yet feel no need to hide his wounds. Wounds, collected over time, collected through the allegedly happy moments, marked upon by forced laughter and crushing embraces. Embraces that engulfs one, moments that suffocates one, and buries one for ever beneath their bullying shadows. And yet here he was holding that glass, drowning in those leftover droplets slowly, letting those trails upon his skin disappear while he watched himself suffer, suffer as if to celebrate his freedom. Freedom, the word that makes even the death smile, and why not...”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling: 

Tragedy of Wanderer: 

“Where does the violence take you, where do you want to go? Could you ever escape, escape even from whom? You don't even have an enemy, but you, you craving to suffer, craving to watch yourself wriggling, like a trapped fish, yet acting as if you could swim away. You can’t get away, not when you have chosen the path of suffering, chosen to worship your wounds. You crave for air sitting in your rat hole, and you suffocate once the fresh air hits you. You have given up on life, yet life clings to you like an obsessed lover, while the death awaits you around.  You could weep and yet the tears would elude you. You are guilty, guilty of being a manipulator who thought he could see through the rule of the night. You have sold yourself to the darkness, yet you expect yourself to be seen in the light of the day, what mockery you make of your own. Oh! Do you not know that you don’t get to choose your own conviction? You have no other option but to face your shadows, shadows that come alive at dusk, and remind you of your nakedness, your vulnerable flesh and bones, expose you of your dirty lies, make you taste your own blood and overwhelm you. The wounds that you worship are bound to turn into ghosts that haunt you. The heat gets unbearable, drowning in your own sweat, you scream; only to end up being buried in that void, hollowness of your voice suffocates you, breathes burns you, your own smell disgusts you, yet the endless abyss accepts you. You don’t die, remember, you are never to die, but to suffer. Forever, alas!”