Wordless
I. I've estranged myself from words. Oral sounds weigh on my body. I hear the ringing of the soul, monotonous echoes of pain like a sadistic string comprised exclusively of dreams of yearning. My plan is simple — I intend to surrender to a realm of the inaudible. Soft lights pierce through the curtains. I imagine the shadows cast are visions: oval strokes without edges, flatly attached to the walls. The floor creaks, my body aches. Splinters run through my spine, through the drained veins, running like a bloodless stream of fluids. Invisible to the eye. Deafening to the mind. I close my ears as inward reflections are tattooed across my face, I pierce my pupils shut to see the mirror image behind my eyelids. I feel a soundless blur in a sightless haze where bobbles burst, not in matter, not in time, but where the space of my body is detached from the concept of perception, existing as fragments of what was once an idea. II. Once I invited the cosmos to a rendezvous beneath the silky light of black-starry night. Then I became acquainted with melancholy, started hearing a despairing melody, the thundering sound of my heart's beating. Then I understood that being alive means being anxious. So I started searching for something to surrender to. Once I discovered A truce of the spirit existing in eternity. You stop breathing, you stop suffering. At a loss for oxygen, out of breath, out of mind. Thoughts start dwelling, embracing the monotony of thinking. The revelation of silence is an'anarchy of the psyche, that consciousness too is illusory. III. The blind man living inside of me starts seeing patterns, the lines of lineage carved into my decaying limbs, each year appearing more vividly, each year being felt more lucidly. I give in to my most basic instinct. I sink into my awakening's comatose. I pry open my third eye with apparitions of memories. I reflect to regret, to salvage the remnants of morality I still haven't stripped to the marrow. Soft light becomes hard dredge draped in bad consciousness. Black sorrow becomes white despair; everywhere I look things turn inside and out. IV. I envision the sky crumbling beneath my body as I float across a dark sphere of liquid rays running through valleys of wooden intellects professing as trees that give birth to an earth that has never been green flowing above a stained sea carrying the bones of civilization telling me it was nothing but a dream.
Cover Art: The Lovers’ Whirlwind, Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta by William Blake



This was so good it is exactly how I feel trying to express myself in words sometimes
This is so good. Really really well composed from start to finish.