An unrequited letter

There are some disappointments that cannot be washed away from the mind. When questions arise concerning the ultimate fate of hopes and dreams, who can save me from falling into the darkest thoughts of how unfair this world can be?

I've tried different paths to a humble Eden but they all seem to end up in a maze of illusions or in crevices of dejection. When I sit back and gaze at the annals of my teenage years I wonder at how insignificantly the percentage of my happiness has risen. I've changed, I've become more open, I've adopted a new philosophy which, if not epicurean or hedonistic, is devoted to the research of pleasure and happiness in life.

Yet the research appears to be fruitless, as if I were pursuing the Holy Grail itself: a reverie, a treasure merely torn between the phantasms of illusionary theories. Indeed it would be simple if the definition of pleasure would be luxurious state of decadence through libations of illusions. I do not seek such chimera's. I seek true pleasure which comes from love and friendship, through satisfaction and well-being. A humble pleasure; I dare not waste my time on visions of fame and materialistic richness.

The world has been upturned if the vague concept of destiny cannot grant me this. I wonder why sighs and tears must always indent the footnotes of my thoughts. It's as if I were not wanted in this world, or worse, it's as if I were just a mannequin for the dark forces of Pandora to play with. A jostling freak adorned with empty banners of the darkest type. The human world seems to reject me as if I were a gnawing cancer, an easily identifiable virus for the lymphocytes of superfluous ideals to destroy upon peremptory command.

I did not pave the lanes of confidence. I did not build where nothing could be built. I live by instinct and continuous emotional and mental growth. A disproportional mass of abstruse feelings liable to explode with the meer ignominy of a stinging needle. I chose to be a fleeting shadow in the ways of the world, I can almost say (as if I were a martyr for my own creed) that I set this destiny upon myself. But even martyrs revel in the agony of their mission. They revel when they're filled with the glory of their own ideals: they revel when the love for the light that brings upon their condemnation, shines on and warms them in the dingy dungeons of their existences.

I have no such faith or trust in my goals. I live like an errant vessel whose sails and oars have been shattered by a long spell of an abominable storm. I cannot even foresee what horizons are to be my next (much feared) destination.

My life is a romantic cavalcade: like every poet I pour the disillusion over the paper after feeling the pain of a sheer fall from dreams to bitter reality. And at every time I feel I'll never get up again.

I dream of vast prairies and freedom and dreams, yet I find myself digging my creased face in the cold iron of a prison door.

The years pass, and on the shore I wait for the turn of the tide. And every moment that flies by, less and less do I believe in the first ripples to come to me and bless me with purity.

A lack of originality in my expectations keeps me seated, waiting, waiting ... for nothing.

How does it feel, I wonder, when you preach a religion that doesn't send you one sign of its existence?

Why does love never bless its devotee? And all it does is leaving him on the ground biting dust and feeling the caustic heat of imperious rage. My body cannot feed on rage or hatred or anything as negative as emotional self-destruction. I am fed up with the repetitive outcome of all of my dreams and hopes. I ask for so little and receive nothing. Can I not desire the starry sky beyond the clouds? Must I stay, a victim of gravity, below the spree of my dreams, living in bitterness and humiliation for having tried once, twice or a thousand times to break those chains and flee to a distant skyline like any bird longing for his home?

I'm falling into solipsism. The world has built invisible walls around me, feeding me with the longing for certainties that are, perhaps, too great for me. Yet I do not want to recede back to the meaninglessness of a mechanical existence, taking what is given to me from the hands of tell-tale society. My dreams are of a very different nature: the world cannot understand. The world will never understand. But I'm not strong enough to withstand the battle, or the war perhaps. The war on a desperate outpost of an emotional universe that might not exist: my own. So am I to be blamed for imagining and dreaming and wanting a small part of these dreams to come true?

The few certainties I had are falling apart one by one; the rearguard of an existinguished army reunited in years of drafting. I do not like the likes of the world any longer, I'm like a prey caught in its den lashing fearless fangs at the paws of my foes. Yet it cannot last forever. The end must come.

Will it be my end? Will I be engulfed in a system I despise so much? Or will I simply vanish from the memories of mankind and fulfill the goal that was given to me: to disappear forever.

Now you might understand why I've taken it so seriously. Why I believed in the only strategy that could counterweight the fate of my battle: love. I might not be in love, I might not mean what I say; all being the recurrence of atavistic clich├ęs on what love might really mean and how it comes to be.

I know my emotions to be true nevertheless. What I saw in you cannot be described but with the fancy and meaningless words that so many poets or writers have elaborated to give words to what, in fact, has no mouth. I seek some peace, a shady grove where I can rest my exhausted limbs and treat my heart's deep wounds. If it lasts a few days, a month or a year it does not matter to me but I cannot go on this way. I want to find solace in the beauty of your smiles, music in the sweetness of your voice and heartfelt happiness when you laugh. And if you give me this you will have found a treasure, the richest of all like catching the leprechaun unawares. I hide myself beneath the cloaks of my sadness, the armour of my romantic battles but I want to cast off the heaviness of things that in the end, only hurt me even more. Yet inside me, despite the scars and open gashes, a small jewel sleeps like a diamond resting within the shell of a coarse rock.

I offered my heart so many times only to be, in fact, ultimately refused and left alone, bathed in tears or melancholy. And the world built prejudices upon me, marble halls of lies upon strong foundations of idiotic beliefs. I am a wanderer, the one who chose Frost's untrodden path, a shepherd of a fictitious flock looked upon with eyes of spite. But I have beauty inside that people cannot see and that I cannot show if there be no reason other than the humiliation of my existence.

Yet you leave me dying while darkness shrouds me.