A Letter Of Self-Made Secrecy by Veronica
I feel like I am standing on the nearest nook of a cliff, with the wind blowing itself into a perpetual proximity of despise. I am made bold, but the numbness inside of me refuses to leave.
I am frozen. I am stuck. I am beaten. I am battered.
I am everything in between the words “hate” and “love”, “sorrow” and “glee.”
I am reaching for galaxies in a wondrous space whilst I am still on the pitiful tables of Earth. I am running, jumping, crawling, dragging myself towards Saturn’s rings, singing songs of melancholy while I gasp for air. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to die. Unless death is full of vibrancy and sunflowers and proclaimed curiosity. I want something from this world, something that the world doesn’t offer.
I do not want to search high and low for a mere rock of hate. I want to adventure for a stone of glory, a stone of healing, a stone of hopeless romance and hopeful smiles. I want to feel the green of the world inside of my stomach, I want the oceans to cleanse my brain and soar out of my ears as I smile a childish smile. I want to consume felicity and feel redolence. I do not want my mind to be my home for much longer, I want to escape. I want liberation, I want resilience. I covet for the dissonance of innocence I once had to return to its home inside of my bruised soul. I desire for my insides to parachute through inquiry.
I need this distant void that lies so powerfully between who I am and the self I don’t see to slam shut.