Sehnsucht.
I feel as though… I am suffocating, withering away into nothingness. My very limbs are cold, as though I am but a dead man, lost and forgotten, locked away in the world of the living as a mockery, forever devoid of the warmth of life, desiring the unattainable, giving my dead, broken heart to those who care not for it, or claim to, upon false pretence, simply to leave me behind, discarded and abandoned, as though I am but nothing, and will forever be nothing. Does one not have the right to grow weary of being treated this way? Is it so wrong to become reclusive, to shut yourself away from the world, to sink back into your own grave, to feel the safety of the grounds of those who have departed, alone, as you were born, as you have been, as you are, and as you forever will be?
It is not love brewed of romance I ache for, nor is it the impassioned, feverish, relentless lust for flesh I am after, but, rather, a simple serenity that which is born out of the simplicity of the love of a friend. Ah, love, what is that wretched word anyway? What is its true definition, if not the willingness of a deserted soul to become vulnerable to an ache far worse than that which was hanging above their shoulders as they walked around the Earth with no one to hold onto, no one to lean on? It is much less painful to have no one in the first place, than to have someone you think is different, someone you once thought could not cause you such insufferable pain, who knew, who hated the mere notion of them causing you to shed but a single tear? Whose very beings turned sore upon the discovery that instead of one tear, they pushed you to cry enough to fill the rivers, oceans and lakes?
But of course, one is always mistaken, for in this world, no matter where you may find yourself, no matter where you may look, you will never find someone who truly cherishes you for what and who you are. No, that is but an illusion, a cruel promise, a deluded fantasy with which we occupy ourselves, filling our heads with the longing for such a reality, to the extent where every cell in our bodies become but the petals of blue roses, of the very emotion, the very sensation that is Sehnsucht.
I do not claim I know all, I do not claim I know the truth to the matters of the heart, for these are the last frontier I may ever dare to tread, the one part of existence that is beyond even myself. I may be able to peer far beyond the skies, to put together the puzzle pieces of the cosmos, as a simple activity of joy and amusement, but when it comes to feeling, I am lost.
Nearly all my life, all I have ever felt was pain. You might think I would grow used to it, but with such a temperament as my own, every single time it is a new stab, a new ache, a blackened bleeding of my insides, of the hollow chambers of my chest. Oh, but for a breath of respite… Like the breeze of spring, adorned by the lovely scent of lavender, of flowers far more beautiful than she or he. I may yet feel alive again if, for a moment, I could find peace, if I could find something without pulse but of greater beauty than what kills me at this very moment, this very second. Then, this dull ache may be lifted, then I may be able to take in a real breath, to be released from the feeling of suffocation under six feet of dirt… Am I alive, or am I simply a phantom, a spirit, a ghost, here for a moment… And completely forgotten the next?
