Sober Revelations Arising from Drunkenness

The night made me remember how worn out my breaths are to reek of teenage wounds and childhood anguish ─ of how I am no longer protected by innocence from harrowing cruelty despite being so young. This flesh is of a newborn prophesied to wither into dirt, given of life only to have it at a loose grasp. These lungs synchronize with life solely through the fewest breaths. Thus, the short-lived days of childhood are the remaining relic of my truest existence. In all honesty, I envy the child of my past for easily weeping over tiny ant bites, knowing that childhood gives all sentiments language and freedom. Now, only numbness is the nearest substitute I know for crying. I have forgotten what it is to shed tears to the extent of being haunted by my fear of eternal vacancy. The heavens seemingly deprived me of every right to be simply human, to speak in ways this sharp-edged tongue cannot. When I would step on the radiancy of the world, darkness always outlived the dwindling sunbeams, as I was drawn to the blackness of twilight. Among my despairing wonders, I had hoped becoming one awful void can be halted by a painless refusal.

Afore, I revel in the presence of yesterdays under the belief that they reveal one’s divine triumph. Yet as my bones grew accustomed to the coldness of being buried even when my body is in perfect flesh, I came to the realization that history is a vast casket of heartaches one would rather consign to oblivion. The sight of who you were at the back of who you are impairs one’s feet to walk alongside time. Being the witness of your shameful passing, you become regretfully aware of how you have set afoot on most of the passage for the living whilst dead. Of how you have unknowingly awoken with closed eyes in this cosmic haven enclosed by resounding laments of practised grieving. However, regardless of the desperation for forgetting, history is forever shackled to a mortal's perpetual recollection, tainting all of tomorrow's purity. Perhaps, tombstones are mothered by memory; a pair of iron teeth that ravage hope.

Repeatedly, I mourn through brutal dialect for the child I was and for my fleeting youth the gods have kissed with sorrow and hatred. For the humanity of air stolen by unearthly thieves. For all the ageless catastrophes that inhabit my rotten remains. And for the faith I carelessly surrendered to annihilation. All those mourning resembled an anthem for the trickling tears of tragic miracles and unlived almost. And how they tasted like immense grief and the faintest of hope, gradually pervading my mouth with nighttime torment. For all my yesterdays, I have wept in the absence of sentiments, as though being numbed but never to death and yet life still appeared to be a forbidden breath.