inmyhands

NOTE
(The persona is a teenager, stereotypical at the
suicidal, nothing matters perspective. They still
recognize there's a little bit of something left, but
they believe it will go away like everything else. I
won't offer an analysis, because that's the readers job.)

In My Hands I Hold

The emptiness, both within and without, a deep abyss
of vague consciousness, the only filling, hardly a
fragment of a shard, against the full mosaics, the
resonating sounds against my faint echoes whispering,
in a juvenile desperate attempt to survive.

The shell of the mind to most, is an obstruction,
blocking the mind from the open,
for me it is a shelter, holding in the fragments and
pieces, the hazy projected personification of my near
inanimate mind, loosely bonded by the same goal; to
survive. Even that is exaggerated, an image of me
staggered and bloated, distorted to the point where it
shatters, and contorted beyond possible imagination, a
false harbinger claiming that I will ignite, and
expand.

In reality however, these small sparks, they fly
about, but settle, they start warm, but freeze, taking
with them little chunks of memories, and information
too large for them to contain, expelling it into the
void of mind, that for most people is rich and
filled with thoughts, memories, and the such. Even
these words I speak will eventually dissipate into
letters, then...nothing. Into writing I dive for a
method of speech, for when I talk, in forum or in
person, I initiate, then cannot say anything until
only the most obscure and obscene points are left to
make. These points, they pollute me like a drop of
poison into a body, followed by another, then another,
for an epoch, until the body loses function, saturated
in poison, it ceases.

Like that, I am slowly poisoned by these
conversations, discussions, and these petty exchanges
of words. People I converse with, they lose interest
also because they can hear and sense the void within
me. By now, any reader will have by their own devices,
decimated this, sensing the repulsive void, hollow
words, and lightly flowing meaning, with it's meaning
slowly stanching itself in another hopeless attempt
to let itself live, another second, another minute.

Another piece of the vague me is lost, lost in a
paper, petrified and stationary, but also dead, devoid
of life, will, and meaning.

None will replace the missing shard, and more will
flow out over time, slowly progressing, until a void
is left, petrified, void of life and will, like the
shard on the paper.

Such is my destiny, my life, and my progress in it
shards falling out, but the shell and shards, hold a
little purpose still.

Midi: "Can You Feel the Love Tonight"
Sequenced:Triskelion Music

Image: "Hands"
Tony and Daphne Hallas