I’ll admit I’m not entire sure what I’m supposed to be writing, but its purpose I believe is a matter of introspection to the deepest level.
Sitting outside, I was once drenched in a welcome serenity. Gradually though, that calmness subsided to a less desired sorrow, to say the least. While I was alone, the empty presence of my characters surrounded me. I can never see them, touch them, smell them, nor hear them. The only sensation I acquire from them is the idea of their being there – the storyboard of my life sharpening their existence.
Perhaps, the sorrows are a byproduct of a persistent and growing loneliness. Perhaps, I am seeking some external comfort that has yet to be realized by any source I’ve happened upon. The physical tension, the wall building, and the general aching in my chest could just be warning signs. Or maybe, those aches were messages from my body – not my mind and spirit – foreboding my imminent demise.
Most people fear life, and ache for death. I’ve passed that stage. I’ve become almost thoroughly convinced that I am in fact dying. That every breath draws me nearer to my last. While some people – those who ache for death – may wish to expedite the coming of the end, I instead wallow in wonder and wait for some sense of completion. It’s foolish to expect that I would allow death to come so easily when I’ve fully accomplished nothing of true value, at least in this world – in
I can only speculate what that would mean for me.
But, my greatest fear now is that my music, once intended to bring me away from my characters and back to myself… alas, they now, even as the melodies and bass thrum through my skull, surround me when I thought I’d be most alone.
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