You've turned your life into poetry because you're unhappy. You miss an old sentimental beat and you wonder why there is no ease, an old man once said to me, I told him; writers don't lie, they simply twist a truth, that no longer serves them in the way they hoped it'll always do. And what is your truth? he asked of me, I shook my head when I realised I had no answer to give.
Like a memory that fades away, that is how I feel of existence today, maybe tomorrow will be a different day, but for now, there is no escaping this heartache. I met an old man in the park today, I was sitting near him on a bench opposite a small river, both feeding the pigeons in; he resembled my father in his appearances; or so I thought at first, to much later, I realised it was only my selfish need to have him to keep, because my own wasn't anywhere in sight when it came to a need I had.
I was carrying a black journal that I had placed by my side, he must have noticed it to which he asked; "Are you a writer of some kind?" "A sentimental diary of my past events and overall life" I replied, "Do you mind reading me a few? Is that alright?" I hesitated at first, then nodded my head, and opened the journal to reveal whats inside:
" 'I am floating, floating in unconsciousness; I don't know why, happiness is so close I can grasp it with my own desperate hands, but twice before it had lied... Twice before, my dear God! I am tired of this restless clinging to all the hopelessness I can't seem to find the courage to fight. A million souls trapped inside, where is my personality hiding at?' "
I raised my head to look at him, he was looking at the ground; I was concerned, was I revealing too much of my state of mind? "Please continue my dear child" he spoke with a pleasant tone that made me relax, I skipped a few pages and opened a random one to start, reading in a brittle rhyme:
" 'I miss my old friend, he passed away last night, took his own life without leaving a note behind. How bizarre of me to be stating facts; like I'm reading the news to just another suicide. Do I even remember him, or the way he used to laugh? I can't even remember what he looks like. People come and go; they're all passing by, One day I'll disappear without a trace to find.' "
The old man was looking at me this time, his lips formed a hard line, to which calmed when he said: "Would you mind reading for me a last time? A recent one, if you don't mind" I skipped a number of pages, and the air skipped a few, a random page appeared and I proceeded to read it through:
" 'I love the man in my dreams, the one in my head that won't ever leave. I love the man in my mind, the one who says the kindest words and makes no demands. I love the man in my heart, I'm in love with the darkness he provides.' "
The old man was smiling this time, and I was smiling too, I closed the journal and then he said:"Your vision finally came true, you can now see me the way I see you" I understood him without having to say another word, for my mind finally believed the lie my heart formed. I've turned my life into poetry and I've grown old to those; stories of love lost and the man I adored the most, he passed away without leaving me a note, but I found my solitude in these poems I wrote.
I am the old man and the journal I wrote is the last remaining piece of a life I no longer know.
Like a memory that fades away, that is how I feel of existence today, maybe tomorrow will be a different day, but for now, there is no escaping this heartache. I met an old man in the park today, I was sitting near him on a bench opposite a small river, both feeding the pigeons in; he resembled my father in his appearances; or so I thought at first, to much later, I realised it was only my selfish need to have him to keep, because my own wasn't anywhere in sight when it came to a need I had.
I was carrying a black journal that I had placed by my side, he must have noticed it to which he asked; "Are you a writer of some kind?" "A sentimental diary of my past events and overall life" I replied, "Do you mind reading me a few? Is that alright?" I hesitated at first, then nodded my head, and opened the journal to reveal whats inside:
" 'I am floating, floating in unconsciousness; I don't know why, happiness is so close I can grasp it with my own desperate hands, but twice before it had lied... Twice before, my dear God! I am tired of this restless clinging to all the hopelessness I can't seem to find the courage to fight. A million souls trapped inside, where is my personality hiding at?' "
I raised my head to look at him, he was looking at the ground; I was concerned, was I revealing too much of my state of mind? "Please continue my dear child" he spoke with a pleasant tone that made me relax, I skipped a few pages and opened a random one to start, reading in a brittle rhyme:
" 'I miss my old friend, he passed away last night, took his own life without leaving a note behind. How bizarre of me to be stating facts; like I'm reading the news to just another suicide. Do I even remember him, or the way he used to laugh? I can't even remember what he looks like. People come and go; they're all passing by, One day I'll disappear without a trace to find.' "
The old man was looking at me this time, his lips formed a hard line, to which calmed when he said: "Would you mind reading for me a last time? A recent one, if you don't mind" I skipped a number of pages, and the air skipped a few, a random page appeared and I proceeded to read it through:
" 'I love the man in my dreams, the one in my head that won't ever leave. I love the man in my mind, the one who says the kindest words and makes no demands. I love the man in my heart, I'm in love with the darkness he provides.' "
The old man was smiling this time, and I was smiling too, I closed the journal and then he said:"Your vision finally came true, you can now see me the way I see you" I understood him without having to say another word, for my mind finally believed the lie my heart formed. I've turned my life into poetry and I've grown old to those; stories of love lost and the man I adored the most, he passed away without leaving me a note, but I found my solitude in these poems I wrote.
I am the old man and the journal I wrote is the last remaining piece of a life I no longer know.
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