Lack.

[witchscauldron]

Perhaps this mood is November's spirit, speaking grey to me. Perhaps it is a return to the despair of a teenaged mind locked in a box not of its own choosing. Perhaps it is my brain, ganging up on the rest of the body that treats it with such derision.

Whatever it is, I lack. I lack desire. I lack motivation. I lack fire. I do not want to burn. I seek that marble coldness, a surface inpenetrable. I do not wish to feel anymore, if it means feeling this.

I lied. I always lie. I desire one thing - I long for it, even as survival also rules me. Sacrificed or sacrificer? Which am I now?

I do not wish to leave the house. The sun is a bright pain in the sky. There are people and trees and squirrels everywhere that watch and mock and deride my lack. They know I'm broken, even as I silently deny to myself this truth. I am scorned by nature itself for it. So I will stay in - this box is my choosing, unlike others of the past - and I will wither, frozen. I shall sit tangled in shadows cast, long old souls reaching fingers into the room, and meditate on the meaning and relevance of it all. I search for perfect vessels in my dreams, deep bowls. I withdraw to where I am hidden.

I can cross over, back and forth, but I cannot stay until She opens the gates to me, until She says due time has come. To live is a sacrifice, and She will have her due. I wait, and I am weary, and I feel rejected even by Her. I fear She will never let me walk away.

I stand between - worlds, people, states of living. I stand between, always. Part wishes sleep, silence, cold, dark. Part...part is tired. Part will keep going...but without desire it is churning in dark waters, slowing touching murky depths that sedate the bright spark inside. It glimmers, like a piece of tin winking in deep currents, only faintly touched by sunlight.

I fear I am boring people. I'm not interesting when I'm depressed, obsessed in my melancholy with decay and the thought of simply letting it all fall. No-one wants to read this sort of thing, I know. It's a genre better left to the youth of today, suicidal more out of boredom than true lack.

Whom to I attempt to fool? It is a tale told by an idiot; full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
-M.

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