Broken Boys In The Night
The swaying rush of the harsh winter winds entered my nasal passage and filled my lungs with a dark, freezing embrace. Ah, it’s winter again; here goes my seasonal depression. Or maybe not… My best friend reached inside my dark, wounded heart. He pulled me into the winter’s moonlight, cold yet comforting. I’m scared of leaving my bubble, he introduces me to other broken souls like me. We stare at each others darkness, and we smile. We laugh and wander into the night, hopeful in each others’ gazes. Dancing under colourful artificial lights, loud popular youthful music and a swarm of sweaty bodies venting life’s vicious punches in our souls and, finally, a drink. A drink for the broken is a numbing tool for the darkness to seep, crawl and linger in our broken hearts. We drink and hop into the next bar and the next bar endlessly without a sense of direction or self-control. Time froze as we filled our carcass-like broken bodies with poison disguised as a relief. We touch, sing, talk, and dance while life passes by us like a momental breeze on a cold winter night.
I have dreams, I say. They look at me, and I repeat. I have dreams, I say.
The broken boys’ bodies nod in agreement, but our souls are too far gone to listen. The spiralling could not end for the broken boys in the night, so I stopped and left. I was and still am broken, but I’m a mess in progress, striving and hoping for something more meaningful and desirable.
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