The Pained Reflections of Every Soul
The ache
There’s this ache within me. A deep one. A sad one.
It’s almost unbearable; it makes me feel a thousand ineffable things that appear so close only to tempt me, and then slip beyond my reach. How to describe it, this burning, perpetual something inside me. It cries out for purpose; for love; for sated desires; for something,anything, more . It makes me go to bed each night feeling empty, as though another day has stretched out endlessly and gained nothing to end this gnawing feeling. It’s a cloud hanging dark over me, or perhaps the sweet promise of a future. Who knows?
These words say nothing tangible I know, but that is because the ache itself is barely tangible and certainly indescribable. If it was easier to decipher than perhaps it would be easier to solve. It’s mixed up with countless things, I suppose. Mixed up with loss, and emptiness, and loneliness and joy, and ambition, and guilty lust hidden beneath bed sheets. Yes, that is it. It is all those things, the many secrets that lurk beneath my skin, waiting desperately to be seen and understood, yet not brave enough to be shown to the world.
Purpose and love: what grossly clichéd desires. So why is it they feel so unique, so mine, so painful? Surely everyone can’t feel this way or how do they all bear it?
It’s almost unbearable; it makes me feel a thousand ineffable things that appear so close only to tempt me, and then slip beyond my reach. How to describe it, this burning, perpetual something inside me. It cries out for purpose; for love; for sated desires; for something,anything, more . It makes me go to bed each night feeling empty, as though another day has stretched out endlessly and gained nothing to end this gnawing feeling. It’s a cloud hanging dark over me, or perhaps the sweet promise of a future. Who knows?
These words say nothing tangible I know, but that is because the ache itself is barely tangible and certainly indescribable. If it was easier to decipher than perhaps it would be easier to solve. It’s mixed up with countless things, I suppose. Mixed up with loss, and emptiness, and loneliness and joy, and ambition, and guilty lust hidden beneath bed sheets. Yes, that is it. It is all those things, the many secrets that lurk beneath my skin, waiting desperately to be seen and understood, yet not brave enough to be shown to the world.
Purpose and love: what grossly clichéd desires. So why is it they feel so unique, so mine, so painful? Surely everyone can’t feel this way or how do they all bear it?
♠ ♠ ♠
Is this self-indulgent crap? Quite probably. But it's also just how I feel right now and, despite it being completely against my usual character, I wanted to share it and see if anyone else felt like this. Whatever 'this' is.