The grave process of realising Solitude
Still nights, promising perpetuity, with the dagger of dawn hidden behind their backs.
The fate of upbringing, etiquette runs uncertain until the preordained coming of age;
bringing the declaration of welfare, of happiness and health,
in measures differing from the expected wealth.
Trajectories of life are thus believed to be destined beforehand,
perhaps to escape from the burden with which a blank canvas of life glares,
instilling remorse and distress.
I make my case, for an exception to be made, to better house, and school
and under-keep myself.
A secluded abode, without a desire to afford
exceptionally expensive rugs and cup-boards, or a schooled barn of horses;
it starts to paint a life closer to the divine than a man could ask for:
away from the task of developing the skill to remember and recognise,
against will, a person, when realised as a whole,
flourishing just as superficially as me.
It should then come as consequence that I don't again see a human being,
so as to not invoke the risk of forgetting the names,
and faces, and voices of people for whom I truly care.
This is another of those wishes I've come to garner,
venturing off to another long trail of thought,
and this is the change I've recently earned,
opening willful possibility for a better insight on future, ambition,
and the dilemma of escape by death, in the Camusian scope.
The one fear I hold still is, admittedly,
of physical ailments that would come to restrict my worldly avail,
and of degradation of mind, and memory,
pushing me onto a cliff—
then watch as I make forfeits
of my flawed collection of words, a bastardised connection to this language,
my vocation of the musical sense;
then they watch keenly, as I give to the seas my dearest possession:
memory, dearest-identity, and two semi-complete asides, written in mourning.
With all written records of love now lost,
and hair shed as called upon by the order, the unrest only intensifies:
The seclusion welcomes a new guest,
and the abode that houses it all,
which now weighs upon my chest, and unbearably so.
There seems to be no end to this condition that I've come to bear,
and there is no soul willing to house so much as a part of the concern, in support.
I turn to deceit of my rationale, and affection of the false;
for in complete abandonment, there is no audience that shall be addressed,
and therefore,
in complete abandonment, the self shall be the sole witness of the collapse
of value, rite, sanity, ego, shame and pride;
it shall be glorious: a complete demise,
a humanist fall.