I confess. I can’t take it anymore, for more would simply fester deeper into my mind. Behind every action, the causation causes more caustic erosion into the little bits that I have left. Have heart, they all say, the voices in my head. But no more, please make it stop. As much as this may sound like a cry it is not, for it is a proclamation. Today, I stop. There were always people around, and people about. Daily life hand in hand with knives of excitement. But the day when one realizes that it was all for nought, that one sacrificed the pure and that which loved one, for that which was nought more, no more. My life could be that of folklore. But I confess, that I gave up which was given me; love and devotion, for a tug of war fought in a tub of lard. Bards might sing my ballad but it would diminish quickly into that of the mendacity of the ordinary. Ordinarily double metaphors and mixed imagery aren’t a forte, but forts are sand castles made in the ebbing tide of mead and its similes. Not only must it suffice to have knowledge, but also in that I know why it exists, why I subsist. As day ends and moon rises, no amounts of swing can rope in the twinging heartthrobs which is the heart; and the mind simply oozes understandably dense secretions that clog the airwaves. Let’s wave a last hello to those that gave us all, gave us much. Such fear only exists in novels, yet we grovel at the ends of pixilations saying a nana nan a. Laudably, there is a moment of confession, for father, the world has sinned. Oh, not I but eyes turning, gyrating round and round around me, see you can’t feel them, but they gaze as you realize the mistakes, the double takes that you wish you could still undertake. Underestimated, ignored and chewed out, all the platonic kisses on the cheek, all the confessions of unreasonable – tum mujhe bahut pasand ho – unconditional love that a simple friend would amass. Now I sit amongst animals, dogs and such, those eyes that know not past the pure thought of peace and lease us some temporary innocence. If I could, I would. But so long, and so much, so long my try again’s – no Monopoly cards – for we are done. One, one moment, sing and ferment my thoughts, sweet lament. I confess, I knew nothing too early, now I know too much, too late. It’s not hate, it’s not blatant profess, but the slow turning, ever churning: the seconds-hand preparing the final drink as our minds fleet.
It’s seethingly neat.
Hereon forth, I shall Mr St Peter, try my best, to profess.