My heart is still weary, heavy from the recent events that have happened. Calamities have befall me, and I am in no shape to take them up. Each day, sleep continues to elude me and the food has lost its taste. No matter how delicious, how ravenous I may be, I still couldn’t be bothered to bring a piece of grub to my orifice. I know I must, but yet, spiritus quidem promptus est, caro vero infirma. The spirit is willing, but the flesh, ever, is weak.
Bit by bit, I allow each shred of humanity to fly to the wind, to disperse it along the sandy dunes of the desert. I am hollowed out and wearied, hollowed out, for trusting too much and being too naive. As I have mentioned before, words are but physical constructs, and no one, not even an immortal, could have predict what was going to happen in the future. Perhaps I would be like the Hollows in Bleach, waiting for a Death God to come and claim me, to cleanse me of my sins and bring me with them.
I had a story unfinished. A fairytale if you will. I started writing on it not too long ago. Or was it very long ago? I couldn’t really remember. Time doesn’t seem like what it is anymore. I put in many hours, thinking about the characters, the necessary twist in the story and of course, the happy ending. Which fairytale doesn’t end happily ever after?
But I realised there are some that didn’t. In the end, that many hours of labour was all put to naught. It was to have been a gift, not so many months from now, perhaps somewhere around nine months from today? A fairytale, a gift that would take me a year to prepare and write.
I dreamt of her yet again.
She asking me, “Wanna play minesweeper?”
Such a lovely smile, such a lovely face. Oh, it just fills me with pain, the distance between me and here.
But Fate, fickle mistress as she is, had me played left right and centre. I didn’t realise I was taking her bait at all until the hook was wrenched forcefully from the lips, leaving it all bloodied, and I was thrown into the pail. I understand now, Mistress. All this happens for a reason. One day perhaps, I’ll live again. But for now, I’ll be contented to just lick my wounds, and press on, a foolish moth being attracted to the fire, knowing that it had burnt it before, yet, stubbornly it persists.
A moth. Beautiful in its ugliness, however short a life it leads.