Dearest Seeker,
My sadness finds its way through the closed door, for it does not need reminders and an open passage to sweep in, akin to the cold water on the warm shore. It finds its way through the crooked streets in the state of dark, which I didn’t know led to the same mellow heart.
With the attempts to dissuade, I try to change and decorate the halls of the heart in noble new ways. Alas, it does nothing to quell the force of the pain; It breaks all walls and window panes, only for the shards of broken glass to slice through my numb blue veins.
Perhaps my need for this sorrow is as of the wide, bountiful wings of the creature of the sky; it wishes for the sky to have for it a little of air, in ways similar, I ask sorrow to push and propel in directions where I somehow, on the lonely days, only have enough will to glare.
My words that I read to seek my hand in my own will leave me if sadness wishes to forever abandon never to unexpectedly show. What else will I have in this world of my own, if not the company of my own pain, which also seeks eyes and ears for the tales old that it whispers hush and low?
It will all escape your mind. The lingering sorrow. The invisible beads of its need. The hollow yet clinging excuses. The plenty of reasons that I carefully craft to give. It will only be absurd for the ones that haven’t been so blessed with the impenetrable and unbound glory of it.
Yet, you will ask me time and time again of its stubborn existence, and I will fail time and time again to pull the string of words that could ever quench your thirst, for the reasoning behind this ominous dark, for this gloomy smoke enveloping me to make simple sense.
In me, tiredness will prevail as your persistent questions remain the very same. The same flabbergasted hows, the doubtful whats, and the unspeakable whens, but if I had the perfectly redeemable answer, I wouldn’t be searching for it still in the alluding bright white heavens, or in the compelling depth of this delightfully cruel hell.
If understanding is truly what you seek, seek it only within the alley of your unlit home, one that’s filled with cobwebs and a shadow of pain that wishes for a light to be shown. No resounding thought will ever be that convincing, no colossal image I could paint of pain that wouldn’t leave you shrinking.
Your life hasn’t been so blissful for lack of any purpose, you were meant for grasses different from the ones I forever stand and take a glimpse of. Why try when you cannot, and why mask your denial to try with your will to understand an experience you have never sought?
You won’t be judged as unkind, I promise, if roses are what’s given to you, may you enjoy their sight and may their existence never be amiss. But ask me not again and again why only the ones with sharp blades bloom in my garden, perhaps it’s my destiny to bleed and delicately mend.
Perhaps I must show the world how the seeds are obliviously sown, nurtured with drops of misery in which I drown, painfully dug out, sharpened with will of stone, And when wrung dry of all pain, how they are gracefully adorned.
Seek, dearest.