through feathered pens inked with blood and a scarred soul of overflowing abysmal ideologies; there sits an obscured entity, scribbling metaphors and ironies in a crumpled paper of her chaos, seeking for something out of all nothings.
and here she u...
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i stole an old manʼs rustic vintage cadillac from his open garage and drove around an abandoned city—the one with naught but silent fiascos forsaken by a crowd that once lived in its streets. as i casted my apertures they often call the eyes, i have ascertained a parallelism between this city and myself: we were both dreary . . . and dull.
it was filled with graffiti-painted walls and spraying cans littering around the cobblestoned pavements of seventh avenue, like how artistically disarrayed my mind was. shards from broken glass windows had scattered along the faulted road, sometimes pricking through my carʼs wheels as i drove pass through them; i could associate it with my shattered soul. entangled wires were hanging everywhere with ravens sitting atop, and mayhap, it symbolizes the haywire of emotions iʼve been feeling every three oʼclock in the morning. there were buildings and skyscrapers; as high as my ambitions, as empty as my psyche, as broken as my whole being.
i still drove further, chasing circles in this perpetual labyrinth with no exit in sight. exhibiting a sigh, i stopped wandering around the land of no destination.
itʼs a little lonely out here.
suffocating. obscured. unbeknownst. lonesome—there was no one but me, an intruder. however, i cannot be beguiled by such a lie no more, because i have always known that this place was never abandoned.
no, it was never.
i was never alone.
this dying car resurrected to life as i maneuvered away from the ones currently haunting me. they are the ghosts of this city—the city which apparently exists inside my head.
i. traumas i have kept in the dark, afraid of revealing itself as she lets me suffer through years and years with no mercy. oh, her cousins are episodes and panic attacks, often never leaving each other for better or worse. sheʼs frequently misunderstood as a drama queen, but she told me one time that she wasnʼt even friends with that freak.
ii. depression that they often deem to be an act of attention-seeking. itʼs a little true, though, as these depressive thoughts like to promenade along the boulevards of Kill Yourself and Youʼre Worthless. he does like attention from me, but it was never an act, you uncultured fool.
iii. anxiety that had lived within me for so long it even morphed into one of the things that completes my messed up version of life puzzle. sheʼs always there, often together with her twin, depression, whether on social interactions or alone in my godforsaken deathbed.
iv. failure had always been partaking her space everywhere; at school, at home, at simply tripping over a freaking pebble—sheʼs the ghost of my actions together with her jackass of a husband, disappointment.
boo.
my mind was a city of ghosts, haunting me wherever i meandered to hide and never once failing to find me inside this endless game of maze. i suppose each of us have a small city living in our innermost soul, and we either runaway from it or face it head on. will you brave the odds and kill them yourself? or will you escape and deceive yourself from the reality you never want to live in?
think again, for i am both the intruder who endeavoured the city to free the prisoner, and the prisoner itself.
