The first descent

What is sleep, if not inevitable?
What is a meal, if not missable?
What is a journey, if not memorable?
What are friends, if not incomprehensible?

What is drinking, if not a sad man's trance?
What are drugs, if not a dreamer’s dance?
What is a flame, if not ablaze?
What is a riptide, if not diabolical?

What is a chasm, if not deep enough?
What is a knife, if not an intuitive thought?
What is a rope, if not one's sorrow?
What is a man, if not suicidal?

What is death, if not bliss?

My answers to these questions were never satisfying enough to silence this relentless inquisition. Instead, they stirred it deeper, rooting it permanently in my mind.

Though I might appear immaculate on the outside, I find that staying realistic often makes more sense than staying blindly positive. Sometimes it’s despair, sometimes vulnerability, and, most often, a sense of being left with no other choice.

When life strikes you in the face with the cold reality of “life isn’t fair,” be prepared; it’s only the beginning of all that is to come.

The famous adage, “Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet,” doesn’t quite seem to apply now, does it? Patience, yes, it’s bitter—I’ve held its taste on my tongue for far too long. But where is the fruit, or am I simply meant to wait indefinitely?

They call these the golden years, and they tell us it’s okay to make mistakes.
If these are the golden years, then why am I drowning in this sea of dearth?
If it’s okay to make mistakes, then why am I held accountable for my very birth?

I don’t know what you and I have in common, but I hope it’s an unfiltered, undeniable loathing for this so-called upright and virtuous society.

Before I share my unsolicited views on humankind, let me first introduce myself.

I am torn between calling myself a poet and a victim of life’s inescapable trench. But I must include how I am just like you—not necessarily in age or experience, but in the shared familiarity of our thoughts, delusions, and thirst for answers.

Because, darling, we’re writers, poets, readers, listeners.
We don’t wish to live forever; we wish to create something that will.

To be fuddled In frustration is to bleed from the hands, but to bathe in serene melancholy is to hold delight in the blood on these pages.

Shaping my existence to make it comprehensible revealed me as one lost in modern lethargy and foreboding confusion.

If there’s one thing that keeps me from surrendering to endless sleep, it’s my insurmountable disdain for rules formed not by the Creator but by insufferable, insular beings who claim they define what it means to live a life.

I hold nothing but insolence for such insatiable, exploitative exponents.

Let’s cast aside these unpleasant formalities and step into a world unveiled by insurgent thoughts.

Take my hand, and accompany me into my chasm of melancholies and spring of serenity.