Призрак Раскаяния

                                                

 I find myself at a loss of words, grappling with the intricacies of my plight. Clarity doth elude me, and the coherence of my thoughts remains uncertain. I have been ensnared in a melancholy state, my spirits ailing for a considerable time. A profound need plagues me, yet its nature eludes my understanding. All that is certain is the pervasive sense of woe that has gripped every facet of my existence. 'Tis as if I am confined within the walls of an elevator, wherein the emergency button beckons, yet the very thought of pressing it fills me with trepidation. I cannot shake the notion that even should I extricate myself, the external realm shall offer no respite. Surrendering this enclosure feels akin to a path I dare not tread, yet the prospect of continued captivity is equally daunting.
 Depression, in the conventional sense, is not my affliction. Rather, I have become a living manifestation of melancholy itself. Assistance is sought, for the resolution lies beyond the grasp of mine own faculties. In my impotence, I resort to that which I excel at: to sit in silence and endure, akin to a compliant child. A descent into a destructive abyss I shall not allow, yet the pain, I fear, shall rend me asunder. Past tribulations have yielded to the passage of time, but this occasion breeds a different fear — that the aftermath may yield an even direr state. As if in pursuit of elusive answers, I chase after passing carriages, though deep within, I harbor no true desire to apprehend them. 'Tis a mere pretense, for I am cognizant that possession would breed disdain and remorse.
 
 At times, I yearn to shed tears, to weep until this torment dissolves. Alas, my tears, akin to my uttered words, prove insufficient. I harbor no desire for this melancholy, wishing instead to elect life over this insipid and vacant agony — a struggle bereft of meaning. I long for genuine connections, eschewing shallow, dopamine-driven relationships. The ability to converse without the specter of solitude and judgment is my desire, to utter words without the fear of losing at the conclusion of each sentence. Mine own decisions, musings, plans, and every uttered word cut deep into my being. I have spilled much metaphorical blood in this mental torment, and all that I seek is a semblance of absolution. Is this my redemption for past transgressions, or the retribution of my fractured soul and mind?

 Within the labyrinth of mine own despair, I find myself ensnared betwixt two ominous choices. Each decision, a path fraught with its own brand of agony, doth leave me standing at the crossroads of desperation and isolation. The weight of mine predicament bears down on me, casting a shadow that envelops every facet of mine existence. Alone and isolated, I grapple with the suffocating sense of solitude that accompanies the burden of my choices. It's as if the walls of my confinement echo with the silent screams of my internal turmoil. The isolation becomes a palpable entity, wrapping around me like a shroud, intensifying the pain that courses through my veins. The options before me, both undesirable, stretch like desolate landscapes, offering no respite. The desperation to escape this mental confinement intensifies, yet the prospect of either path feels akin to navigating a minefield of suffering. The uncertainty of my future amplifies the ache within, leaving me adrift in a sea of regret and indecision. The pain, both emotional and visceral, becomes the unwelcome companion on this journey. It lingers in the shadows, coloring my every thought with shades of anguish. Each heartbeat seems to resonate with the rhythm of my internal struggle, a discordant symphony that plays out the tumultuous narrative of my predicament. The isolation feels like a heavy fog, obscuring the possibility of reaching out to others for solace. The mere thought of sharing my burden with someone else is haunted by the fear of judgment, adding yet another layer to the labyrinth of my pain. As I navigate the treacherous terrain between these two bad decisions, the sense of being trapped in a cycle of despair intensifies. The walls of my isolation close in, and the choices before me loom like ominous specters. It's a desperate plea for reprieve, a longing for a guiding light through the darkness that enshrouds my existence.

Amidst choices that grip and bind in torment,

A phantom dread courses through my veins, unkindly sent.

Not merely the present pain these decisions bear,

But the specter of regret, shrouded in destiny's snare.

The recognition that these choices may weave,

The mournful tapestry of my life, I can't perceive.

Paralyzed by desperation, at the crossroads I stand,

The specter of regret, an ethereal, unseen hand.

Whispers of sorrow in mine ear, regret's mournful strain,

A lament for a life unlived, opportunities slain.

The burden of "mayhaps" presses, a relentless siege,

Dread of remorse, an ever-growing, haunting intrigue.

The ache within, not solely from present plight,

But the gnawing dread, haunting both day and night.

No matter the path, a grim reality may dawn,

Unfulfilled potential, a fate forlorn.

Dread of settling into a life, aspirations incomplete,

A tempest of doubt, clarity's merciless defeat.

Until then, stranded in the present's somber sway,

Caught in fear's undertow, desperately seeking a way.

To break free from the prison of uncertainty's might,

That holds me captive in the shadows of the night.

Paralyzed by desperation, at the crossroads I stand,

The specter of regret, a mournful, unseen hand.

In Shadowed Solitude, A Soul's Solemn Reverie

                                                                  

 What didst thou presume would come to pass? Amidst the dalliances with butterflies, donning masks upon masks, striving to awaken from dreams, and the copious codeine gulped down on empty stomachs by men who had existed long ere thy birth, and those who ejaculate to the point of tearing their gastrocnemius muscles, etching characters somewhere within the smoky center of a post-coital cigarette, betwixt the lines of truths, encompassed by a realm where the only fornication occurs beneath the illumination of lights. Amidst a sea of deceptions, encompassing Jeffrey Epstein's demise and the grocer's lies about hoarding cigarettes, all realities have been ensnared. Thou art perishing, transforming, suffering, vanishing. With whom and where dost thou exist? In whose womb art thou born this morn? Upon which earth's soil shalt thou be interred? What weapon dost thou wield? Why canst thou achieve climax solely whilst immersed in the melodies of music? Wherefore dost thou not attempt to pierce thyself with this quill?

---------------------------------------------------------------

 Because certain paths you should not tread,

For maps of old, a dire warning spread,
"They be dragons," where they led.

Though the maps have changed, as we've read,

 It don't mean the dragons are truly dead.

----------------------------------------------------------------
 Ismet, upon rousing from slumber, gazed upon his lifeless aquatic companion, adrift in the watery abyss, and this grim sight did bear down mightily upon his heart. At the outset, he strove to mask his grief. His visage retained its stern mien, yet his brows hovered perilously close to the gates of his eyes. When he beheld the motionless fish, suspended in the aqueous realm, inverted with eyes unblinkingly wide, Ismet found himself bereft of the strength to partake of sustenance. For a protracted span, he refrained from drawing Vosvos from its aqueous haven. He dared not draw nigh.

Aye, it was but a humble fish, and the passing of fish is the way of nature. To capture a fish, however, is a transgression of the natural order. In his youthful days, Ismet ne'er cast an angler's line into the waters. Upon certain ebon nights, when the ban beset the hunt, he cast nets from seafaring vessels. He would dispatch octopuses with resolute blows to their heads, and once he hoisted the piscine souls ashore with his fishing rod, he did not return them immediately to the water's embrace. Instead, he placed them upon a broad stone altar, there to witness their agonies. Now, he pondered in solitude: Why, on this morn, did this diminutive fish repose in stillness, its essence affixed to that place as though by a malevolent force?

 Ismet, thou hath not glimpsed thy failures laid bare in so many moons.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

My lungs do kindle as each cloud fragments away,

I yearn to cry out, but no manifesto holds sway.

My jawbones entwined, marrow courses like a river,

I implore, "Bring it forth, let's dine, let us deliver."

Yet time stands scarce, and credit cards are naught,

Only I remain, aflame lungs, with clouds all but wrought.

I argue, for in this world, a coffin truly be,

The most intriguing vessel that one can see.

A means to venture where even dreams do fail,

To places unobserved, where few have set their sail.

She states it akin to trains, the way it carries on,

Embracing the unknown without fear, bygone.

For escaping, in the end, means chasing another's tale,

The pursuit of something new, as we set sail.

My finger bones do ache, I entreat,

I can bear no more Godard's bittersweet.

Love's captive, the ship's helm, and desires untold,

Though you pour them, like an overflowing cup of old,

Twas once driven into my liver, the unrepentant's heat,

Even if stitched with silk, what purpose does it meet?

As a taxi's vacant seat, it remained so still,

After the funeral, only street dogs did shrill.

Yet no one did hear them, no heart did sway,

For they, like an echo, soon faded away.

----------------------------------------------------

 Did we not once speak of the tobacco's embrace upon those serpent-like tresses? Or ponder upon a journey into obscurity with faces unmarked by virtue? The soul, ensnared between the grip of nail and flesh, lingers on, akin to moss's patient caress upon the stone. Hence, it is the compass of the heart, steadfast in its dedication, ever pointing towards the northern star. In the clasp of hands, we hold the handkerchief of love, passed down, secondhand, by unyielding spirits.

  How distant our lives lead us, like phantoms traversing the vast expanse of the abyss, ethereal and unbound. Of course, you do speak wisely. The destination, in truth, is a mere whisper, a fleeting specter of our journey. The where and when hold no substance. What carries gravitas is to elude the impending fall, to evade the calamity. If need be, let us standstill, forsaking existence itself, lest the malevolent hand of fate rend and shatter, cast us into oblivion, sealing our fate. Why tread this treacherous path? Do we have relentless pursuers, eager observers who watch from the shadows? Do they hold greater import than your essence?

 Let them linger.

 In the end, all that holds significance is to endure unscathed, to maintain the integrity of our existence in this cursed realm.

----------------------------------------------------

Behold, I peruse the forsaken words of yore,

When last did I mine own flesh explore?

Each touch I thought would leave no scar,

Yet they marked me deep, both near and far.

In my quest for self-forgiveness, voices raise a din,

Obscured amidst their clamor, where do I begin?

To find my essence, origin, and why I'm here,

Cloaked in robes as pure as driven snow, I appear.

Grieve not, for life and death do oft entwine,

We're cast adrift like ropes, our youth's design.

The walls I've built, they whisper as you near,

Perhaps one day, I'll say, a pigeon's nest so small, my dear.

But still, I cannot contain what longs to soar,

For it seems I am destined to seek forevermore.

--------------------------------------------------

 In the age of fire's waning, we sought our own cataclysm, and it had a name - Humanity. In tomes and whispers, in the vaults of deities and the cosmic abyss, the greatest reckoning was us. Our tempests rumbled in silence. Instead of sundering, we raised edifices. Rather than immolation, we consumed all within our grasp. Our apocalypse unfurled gradually, a creeping pestilence. We were the contagion. Spirits, elixirs, and melodies served as meager remedies.

 Humanity, the harbinger of annihilation for the world and for each other's souls. Humanity, a race with no nemesis but itself, bereft and restive. Crying out, howling at the universe without comprehending the reasons for sorrow, targets of rage, or paths to tread. Our existence existed in paradox. We could forge and obliterate, cherish and despise, bestow life and snatch it away. The dichotomy of our essence, opposing forces that should have harmonized, yet instead perpetuated an interminable struggle. Humanity, the name for both the destruction and redemption that resided within.

--------------------------------------------------

In the hour of deepest night, we now find ourselves.

Our weariness, akin to the smoldering embers of a hearth, patiently awaiting their inevitable end. Our longing for the night, concealed within those who have departed prematurely, much like the fading embers by their side.

Another laughter tears through the descending melancholy, etching its mark, scraping away the sorrows ingrained within these very walls, leaving behind a tapestry of pain.

Yet, only you endure.

You and your hair, reminiscent of the most enchanting hues of a twilight sky. They cascade, like the cooling breeze of a brisk autumn evening, upon my weary shoulders. The winds replace your hair, dispersing my essence to the farthest reaches of this room.

I find myself unable to halt, my tongue faltering in its attempt to find words. I clasp tightly to what remains unbroken, striving to avoid another plunge into the abyss of solitude. Perhaps, it's to steer clear of being lost;

In the hair of a resentful late afternoon.

With every collision of our fingers, I etch yet another footprint on the untouched shores I've never tread. With every touch of your hand to my hair, a new breeze stirs. Perhaps my mother would be disheartened, and the sound of waves crashing against my ears would drown out the world. Your voice, a soothing lullaby, as if I were seated on a bench facing the vast sea. Love, as Sait Faik would say, accompanies this internal turmoil.

One wing, a fiery red,

Pierced, it bleeds.

The other, a sinister venomous green.

A bottle of the cheapest wine refills our glasses,

And another sailor succumbs to the abyss, within the ocean I shall never tread

--------------------------------------------------

 I awaited its arrival, but it lingered not this day. A sentinel of an evening most peculiar, it seemed to be. Who can fathom into which dream's embrace it has fallen, hanging its whistle upon its very essence? My spirit lies shattered, a reunification beyond repair. Now, the riddle echoes in our minds: do facts craft the tapestry of events, or do events weave the fabric of facts?

Nevertheless, if it came not, I shall inscribe my own tale as though you were naught but a specter. I shall deceive myself as if our paths have never converged. I shall revel in this self-imposed illusion. Another song shall fill my ears as I behold my own gaze, cast adrift upon a wall devoid of purpose. The trodden paths shall beckon me once more, to seek my presence or solitude upon those very benches. I shall await the arrival of spring and faithfully discharge the unspoken words trapped within the gullet of a bygone season. My pre-fabricated deceptions, the tales I conceal in shadows, shall offer escape from my very being, as I command the mirror to stay its reflection. I am perilous.

Yet, I shall dismiss the enigma of emotions somehow, but what of the enduring legacy of my soul?

Love was assimilation, becoming one. Losing oneself within the labyrinthine streets, a gradual descent into the haze of monotony. A smile shared with strangers whose faces once held no significance. Sudden ownership of every seemingly nonsensical word. But for a year and a half, I awakened to the same dawn. How can one elucidate the swift transformation of visages beyond the window, outpacing the descent into slumber? The answer remains elusive, as it often does.

I declare with candor: I did not succumb to love. I loved, and I loved profoundly. Yet, my affection for her wrought a genocide of its own. It shattered my very essence, fractured the very notes of my existence."

--------------------------------------------------

I have grown weary of this existence, as clear as day,

Or perchance, I'm ensnared in melancholy's poetic sway.

Perhaps I dwell within desolation's cold embrace,

Hiding my emotions behind this somber face.

I pledged to write without second thoughts or doubt,

But an emotion emerged within, I could not cast out.

Bewilder all, trust no one, that's my solemn creed,

Form no attachments, let it be decreed.

Shall I hold myself in questionable esteem?

My thoughts wander, lost in a shadowy dream.

Fire a bullet to the heavens, by my hand or yours,

Feel the icy wall with the warmth of all my pores.

By the coastline, within a two-story abode's grace,

Two wine bottles, let mornings not erase.

Mornings, noons, evenings, and days untold,

I write incessantly, life has grown so cold.

Shall I depart without savoring life's sweet delight?

I yearn for release from this endless plight.

Or not, even if I survive the relentless tide,

Let them depart to their heavens, where they may hide.

But alone, I am utterly consumed by ennui,

Weary, I weep, and I am easily subdued, you see.

Songs lose their meaning, I fade, it's true,

I depart, but distant lands elude my view.

I stand as a lone wolf, guarding my own soul's bane,

I may rend myself asunder, amidst darkness and disdain.

Break me, see me, and mend me aright,

I shall tear myself apart into the endless night.

Agriculture and midnight bars, I meander and explore,

I beg your pardon, my words, I'm not sure.

But as I ponder by my dwindling cigarette's end,

Forgive me, dear friend, for I must now ascend