ach...

It wants to be this highly articulate treatise on the liminal state between happiness and despair, it wants to, but it can't because it lacks the proper words to convey this precise feeling. Not so much melancholy, not so much sadness, not so much apathy or uselessness or failure or broken ideas, not even dreams, the ideas themselves are broken, there is no cement to hold them together in a coherent fashion, to make sense of the puzzle, to walk calmly instead of running to press one's face up against the glass to watch the crash and burn spectacle. It means to expound on the impossibility of self expression, the narcissistic extremes, the mental fortitude, the spiritual burn and the nothing, but it can't because it just wants to curl up in a ball, in the middle of the bed, and cry, because there was a broken shoe, and a broken promise and a possibility and a person who loved too much, for the wrong reason, and because there is nowhere to put the pieces of it that don't fit inside the lines of the neatly drawn box, that washes away in molten wax swirls or chalky dust, or drips with the blood that it isn't brave enough to shed itself. It means to be all those things and yet, it is fully incapable of being anything but a cripple, unable to see straight without the eyes, without the mouth and without the hands pulling it apart in miniscule strings, vivisecting it with its pulsing heart beating beating beating... It comes so slowly at this time of day, angling in like a pack of hungry wolves, or a swarm from the hive, glistening with viscous honey, it means to be anything but the destruction, and still it wants what it cannot have, and it hurts only itself, until it hurts another.