Unfettering. Undying. Untying.
Undesirable. Unfinished. Unforgiving.
None of these words adequately describe the turmoils of an isolated heart.
Pitiful. Ridiculous. Cretinous. Arduous.
Words that describe a burden to vivacious minds.
Indecent. Inopportune. Inconvenient.
Diction that describes the role of a longing soul in a progressive society.
Tattered. Vivisected. Indolated.
Vocabulary for a damaged spirit.
Should. Would. Could.
All for a disgustedly melancholic being.
Like being me.
Tasteless. Leathery. Overstayed. Ataxic.
You’ve done what you needed to do. Now perhaps it is time to move on.
The train ride was eventful and pure, filled with dreams and aspirations and satiety. But now you’ve passed your stop 10 times and the tracks just keep getting rougher and rougher.
Most people never have to get off this train called life, but sometimes seats need to vacate. Someone has to pay for a transaction that was never made. Someone needs to be accountable for a crime never committed. Someone needs to go.
I’d say I wish I’d have volunteered to go, but I’ve already been chosen. Such a comment is robbed from its chivalry. It is just a job that needs to be done.
Soon, my stop will come, and there will be no consolidation. No mourning. No mural in the galleries of hearts. Just a routine happening. A relief, even. Or complete catharsis to the world.
I could cleanse the world of me. A small nova of iridescence and a vacuum. There would be one less plate to set. One less seat to reserve. One less salary to pay. One less petrified heart to bear. One less voice in a melange of billions. Not even an echo.
Two more stops before it’s mine. Admire the view across a pristine window – so transparent you’d be convinced it was immaterial. But you can’t touch the flowers, feel the wind or taste the rain. You can only sweat from an unbearable sun.
You have been to this stop before. There is no platform. No number. Not even an announcement. All you see is your feet facing down an abyss. An oblivion. No sea to save you. No flora to admire. No birds to sing. Just a dry cataclysm and many other lifeless, eviscerated bodies. Emasciated. Longing.
Soon, perhaps, you may add to this collection. Not even a sadist bothers to look down.
Doors open. Not even greeted on this coach. Don’t expect a farewell. Don’t expect appreciation.
Expect, instead, of relief. Expect a few smiles unseen. Expect a cloud of melancholy to fall with you.
Pulverized bones. Punctured pupils. Arms swinging back like a damaged figurine. All accompanied by a satisfying crunch.
And you will, too, become a speck in an abyssal canyon of rejection.
Perhaps I’ll find a world where water flows upwards.
Perhaps I’ll find a world where beings hop from cloud-to-cloud to find home.
Perhaps I’ll find a world where soil is effervescent and the ceilings of our homes are made of wool, arabesque textiles and ice foundations.
Perhaps I’ll find a world with such uneven grounding that falling is just a routine, mundane feat. It’d just be a simple quirk that all common spirits share.
A world, perhaps, I would belong in.
A world so preoccupied with the drifting winds and scattered, harmless rain that companionship was never a requirement. A burden. An artifact.
A world so complex, romantic quarrels and infidelity would be so trivial and unequivocal to the changing tides. A world so gloriously inefficient that hunger was not an isolated problem – everyone would sympathize with starvation and drought. A world where self-evisceration isn’t seized as an opportunity to advance someone’s political and social stature. No wishing you could have done something. No wishing you had said what you wanted to. No bullshit wishing in a bullshit memorial.
Would such a world in such disarray be a world in calamitous peace? A way of unity? The birth of a eschatological world?
Would this be a world where you lived, or a world you died?
There are
days
when you could just materialize
WINGS
and other
days
when you feel the
WEIGHT
from your
head
pull you to the
CORE
of the world.
Regardless of where you go
you can still feel your
TOES
singe from the
FLAMES
of hell.
No amount of antidote can
bring you anywhere
NEAR
the oblivion you seek.
The feeling of
NOTHING.
The feeling that you can no longer care
and
the feeling of singularity.
An
ABERRATION
that disappears with time.
Let
me
go
HOME.
Indeed, this is the blog of Franky Liu. Voukah is simply a compilation of random thoughts and useless rambling as he goes through an interestingly mundane life. With that, he is quite emotional and many times annoying; sometimes he wonders if he is narcissistic as well. He also may cause upset stomach. He also enjoys speaking in third person.
Voukah, its design and its writing belong to Franky Liu, with the exception of quotations, stock images, or anything otherwise obvious. Yes, the damned design is mine.