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When suffering becomes such a natural symptom, your tears are not salty anymore, and your eyes no longer give a burning sensation.
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Your best laughing transforms itself into the most discreet, almost invisible smile.
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Your thoughts comport at will, tactfully.
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People recognize you no more.
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And most commonly, the isolation takes over your life's control.
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It seems you only exist, with nobody feeling your existence.
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From time to time, (very, very rarely), you might provoke inside someone a grimace of distaste, something felt like a cold numbness.
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And maybe, because you look through memories so often, you're causing yourself the sensation as if those past events happened yesterday… (basically, you live as if you're in the age time of your twenties…‽ thirties…‽ forties…‽).
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With all that, you're in all your mental faculties. You're watching for some who prefer to change your statute, even if you tell them that's nothing for them to worry about.
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The message is simple, - you want to live, to feel alive… (so much you miss yourself).
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The worst part is that you don't know when and what has generated this unexpected change; (how to fix it…‽), (if it can be fixed…).
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Yesterday, (they♡… were there…), next to me. Also, was the passion that loved playing through a corner of my soul, while happiness was free of obstacles, and…(…).
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I want to go out… (a walk through the park, or to the beach will do me good…), but I postpone… Somehow I do anything to push away this desire…; (I'm afraid…); it's a fear that has colonized itself… in my bones.
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Sometimes I think I act as if I'm scared of happiness, while its absence gives an uncomfortable sensation… And it's not only that… I speculate that (when suffering becomes such a natural symptom), you hallucinate.
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Hmm, ⋯
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Dear Happiness,
I'm writing these lines to you because I need you.
Normally, you know I wouldn't bother you, but now I have no choice.
I wrote to you a few times, not so long ago, till I realized you didn't get any of my letters, otherwise, you'd have been running in a soul, to me.
So, in this waiting, as likely as not, among the many posts that I threw in the middle of the hazard, at least one will get to you.
Therefore, lucidly, I'm hoping, that when you'll hit the jackpot in answering my appeal, it'll not be, too late.
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Yours, the one who waits to get in contact with you…
⋯along with an amalgam of disassembled thoughts.
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(truth is like poetry, — you f***ing love it or not)
