Hopelessness

I tried to explain my psyche like Charles Bukowski. I penned a list that included being angry all night at my uselessness in other earthlings’ lives, plus the lack of humanity endured whilst working. But I concluded the result was mere petulance, probably because my next mood sank deeper…

I vehemently believe this country has a sickness that shackles the joys of life. I’ve felt its hands strangle me. Its fingerprints are still moulded in my brain. The words it suppresses everyday reach me from far below Finnish lakes and deep inside countryside estates. But I can’t explain the stories I’ve been told, only share what it means to lose all hope myself. And I could polish that reality inside of a metaphor, but for what? In order to see the light, we must shine it on every naked limb…

Hopelessness, then, is searching for that very word on Google while your love sleeps. Feeling your heart rejoice and concave simultaneously when the text describes everything you’ve kept locked inside for x number of days – sometimes in the lonely dead of night, sometimes when noon stays by your side. Energy burns that a good run can’t fix. After splitting living rooms, it’s the wrist. It’s tough to admit, but these thoughts do exist. And now you know all this, please forgive me should I despair when hearing it repeated. Or write all this out when nothing is hinted. If this triggers problems deeper-rooted…

I’ll delete it.

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