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...”
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