Dark is Beautiful

We're exhausted and our souls have grown weary. Just like the clothes you wore wear out, your soul also wears out. Soon, the tiredness will overwhelm all and there will only be a darkness surrounding the hopes of the souls' wandering. "Does life matter? Does it matter? Does it?" we ask these questions many times. We struggle and frantically kick the air about us but we hit nothing. We're all alone. We suffer alone, and all we love, we love alone.

Some love wishes are granted, and some are rejected. Some death wishes are granted, and some are rejected. Some hope wishes are granted, but some are crushed. The world we live in is as such. Crying out, "Cruel!" doesn't help anyone. No one cares, no one sees. No one sees the hand drowning in the midst of the crowd and assuming it as a waving hand, non fathom. 

Non pay attention to the destructive fire within people and regret being blind. All we are capable of is regretting. All we ever had to do was just see before another death's occurrence, yet our eyes have been purged by our own souls and we no longer feel. Thus we search for a fragile thing called love to find meaning.

We accept the love we think we deserve. That love is however not heaven nor hell but instead, it is a shallow cave that we take shelter in temporarily. The shadow of a blanket covers our shivering body and we sigh. But it's just a shelter from rain that will erode away and once it does, we search for it again. The fate of our kind, so glorious and yet so pitiful, is doomed. Our world has always been a paradoxical contradiction. Knowledge destroys our minds and the tragedy slowly comes to an end...

A subtle thought can turn into a tragedy.. And once it does, there's no stopping it. Quietly, oh so quietly, we cry in our bed even while knowing that it won't make a difference. The dramatic moments in our life that we create are all dull memories that we all know one day will be forgotten, and we are all actors. Actors like us will age and turn into what we came from; we came from dust. A story can be written, but it will no longer be read. A song can be sung but it will no longer be heard. Numerous feelings will be left behind, but they will no longer be felt. A piece of our hearts will be left behind, but they will no longer be remembered...

This is the way I am. This is the way I see and think. Who understand me when I say that this is beautiful?

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