A prodigious teen? Definitely not so.
Quaint as a ballerina who prances along the space, a single feather is what they hear. A swan does not cry until their feathers have been plucked, their necks-- wrought.
¿ǝƃɐɯɐp ɹnoʎ s,ʇɐɥʍ
{ Count. Down. }
I am not much for vociferous incantations. Must I scream in order for you to hear?
The world is laudered with that in which is beautiful. Happiness. Happy tidings.
And yet I regress. I become self aware, I grow wary.
I do not wish to impose on those who are happy.
I am sad. But I cannot bother anyone else with such silly melancholy waves.
And that is when I realize…
I am quite very lonely.
i wish to go to sleep
for just a little while longer
for a hole that is much too deep
makes the heart grow much the same, fonder
A jovial laugh. A brittle giggle. A half hearted shake. A shattered soul.
Being cognizant of the unsurmountable amount of failures I have subjected my entire life to has lead to a single point in the present. A present where I cannot see my future. I am fettered to the shackles of failure. I am but a childish berk who can never do anything right.
I am not burdened. But it aches. It hurts. It pains.
Smile even though your heart breaks. Smile?
They don’t understand. It’s not simply about being harangued. It’s about me letting you down. Being a complete and utter failure. Worthless. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t.
I’ve never wanted to subject you two through these trials. I wanted to do better. But I see now even I can’t do anything. Because I can’t. I was never at my limit. I failed. I’m a failure. I am sorry.
I don’t cry because you yelled. I cry because I let you down.
A storm is brewing.
The world is mundane and redundant, and I am a prodigious son of a bitch with ceaseless ideals and thoughts and more thoughts and more and more. And then someday these thoughts will run rampant and I will implode, implode until no longer prodigious but rather a very infectious and apathetic ninny.
I veer into a path of extrinsic abnormalities which I gaze in consternation, wondering in sheer perplexity at the peculiarities I am curtsied with. I am thus greeted by a two-forked road. One welcomes me with open arms, warm, and affable. And the other— idyllic, much too worn to be considered walkable and a fancied road to the average traveler.
Shall I travel the worse-for-wear path, or the one graced with the utmost effulgence? I am troubled. I am perplexed. I am incredulous and look at the direction of the worn, old, rustic road. The end of the pulchritudinous walkway promises the usual enticing token: a reassuring loving end which would assuage any, if not all the quandaries my cognizance is disconcerted with. But my interest is piqued by the haggard road. Fear palpitates and courses through one’s system, heart and head bellowing in fright at the road with an end that is not so congenial.
When push comes to shove, one must make a decision. And my decision has always been the same: I make my own road.
Wouldn’t it be easier to take the obvious road, one would ask? Others have perceive what is in front of them differently. They can be oblivious, or completely certain that their reason—their choice, is pure, indelible truth.
But where is the fun in that? Fun, with the easy way out?
The roads before me do not satiate me. They do not. They hinder me from what I am meant to achieve, stymie my walkway and encroach on all that I’ve sweat for. Every hurdle—every single bloody stick, rock— they mean nothing more to me but building blocks: a new paved road.
A wry smile works its way across my lips and I am thus relieved of the abrading grime which serves but to befoul my physique. A difficult burnish of soot, a light-hearted laugh.
It’s life.
Without Wax,
Nisa.
