A Painful Eulogy To My Semicolon

It is in every way how you thought this ought to be. I have never been quite a fan of flaunting my wellbeing, particularly these days where lack of which is considered as a trend. It is somehow, in the least of sense, being deranged in the most of your whole and unable to stretch your smallest muscle is genuinely up for a celebratory dinner.

The worst part is that I have never actually been able to wrap it in my own conscience. I was told that every sorrow ends as much as every sad songs send shivers and even sad songs come creeping back when the meter starts moving South. I had inadequate emotional ability then that I believe pain is a phase as much as the clouds move wherever the wind is blowing. I was told to pray, but never have I ever heard anything back that I began to have a feeling that either God is deaf, or we just don’t speak the same language. Maybe God thought that my problems were too minuscule that he spent his energy on death that could actually make the news. Fine, that’s one hell of a good argument. I was told that God has never really lose a spar anyway.

All of a sudden, I was expected to act like an adult while simultaneously treated like a child. This torn me in two fatal ways: one, is that I could hardly distinguish the contrast between adolescent imagery of fights between two superpowers or legitimate take on my internal conflicts; two, is that there is a good chance that the reason the world doesn’t take me seriously is probably because I’m not within the census of people who can actively contribute to the GDP. So then I rest my case, while leaving it open for everyone to read while I rectify every sentence with black ink just because I happen to carry black markers all the fucking time. I decided I would take matters in my own hand, the same hand that had mistaken my own birthday as checkpoints on whether or not I should save and quit the game.

Of course I made plans. Theatrical exits are the pinnacle of performing arts, isn’t it? It makes it all worthwhile again, and it makes you forget the little cringes you had or the mistakes the cast may have made. When the exit is theatrical, then the impression the show leaves in you are the dramatic scenes and those that tickles your abdomen. The impression you will be giving to the next person would start with the good scenes and followed by a series of howevers. But, I’m pretty certain that whatever the next person is listening to he or she would not remember every detail you were trying to convey, maybe just the memorable parts. That gives me chills and peace, strangely simultaneous.

To make things a little bit interesting, it is in its absolution, not a phase at all. Or maybe, let’s refrain from using the word ‘phase’ because all of us pain-engulfed souls are well aware that said word came in contact with too many homophobic narratives it becomes sort of a cliché. But eh, that’s a problem that I’ll address later on, in spite of the perfect timing. I guess, sorrow is a state — a state of absence, or of presence of that we always seek to obtain. It is not in any exhaustive way curable as I understood it, sorrow is just going in and out repeatedly until I decide to just throw away the door.

If my life were to compressed into six days, today being the sixth, then day one to five has been nothing more than excessive canoeing on an edgeless stream even though the whole way you’re a hundred-percent certain there’s going to be a waterfall — you can even hear it coming, but its never there. It almost seems as if it has nothing to do with the waterfall expecting you but rather to do with whether or not you are ready for the fall. I wasn’t going to explain day one to six like you probably thought I would do, partly because I’m quite sure nobody reads this anyway.

I think this is enough. There’s a beauty in not revealing everything. You evade the possibility of hurting anyone that claims to shive a git about you, while also avoid scaring off any folks who knows nothing about you. This is the perfect blend of vagueness to encompass a problematic life wrapped in a black outfit that doesn’t seem to go well with the summer sun.

If you make it through this post scratching your head, you lose. If you were able to grasp the little innuendos that I put ever so frequently, then I lose. Between you and me, let’s see which one of us is actually competitive.

;

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