The Eternal Sky

Am I so unlikable, am I so mean? It is a torturing self-mutilating day today, splitting myself into light and dark fractions, causing my brain to swirl with worldly nothingness—
nonsense of the modern-day generation. “Here, please look at these pictures of my kids,” she says, going to everyone in the room but me. Ouch, I think to myself, very blatantly cold.. So, the question stands. Why do people look at me straight-faced and hateful when I bid them good morning? Is it because they can hear the strain in my voice to try to appease? Do they here the laced woes of my boredom-struck heart crying for release out of its chained mediocrity?
I’ve only ever wanted to be different. The social airs and graces of aristocracy have always suited my taste much better than suburbia suffocation. But here I am, dressed in my house-wife costume of pearls and taffeta, ready to embrace “wifedom” and all its submissive glory. Adieu, adieu, my sweet career, my much longed for diploma, my only chance at the lights I’ve always thought myself destined for. Become a writer/editor? Really? When and how would that be accomplished, say you, now that you have complicated your life with normal things...

Normal things? When have you ever been about the normal things? Once I took great pride and definition in being the antithesis of the astute “normal.” Such things I once beheld for myself. Can I really embrace this future with passion? The zeal, if ever there to begin with, surely is not flowing now. Not on this darkened day when storm clouds hover o’er top the sunny skies and the warmth of the now is blanketed by the cold of the eternal.

…But, do I really believe such nonsense? I have no idea what I believe; I am a splintered, fractured image of what I have believe of me for twenty years. You see, I am still nothing more than that pitiful child of yore; nothing past a solemn, tainted, soiled mind, a heart too confused to claim identity. All she knows is what she wants, what she needs—what she clings to in desperation of soul. But who is she? Does anyone know? For now, all I know is that she is unlikable and mean.

Motivation has died.

The eternal sky has seen so much of the same things

What is new? It seems so new when the heart is restless

But it seems so slow when the passion dies

Life drags its heels and crawls rigidly as one suffocates to find their way

But how it must speed itself when things are bright—

I gather so, I must say

I really have no new words here

Just a garbled mess of regurgitated words

Recycled feelings

One can choose their fate of by it be chosen

But it seems that there are multiple paths

That bring about the chosen

And whose to say which is wrong

Until the door slams softly behind them.

Copyright © 2006 by Melanie Faith