(Amplify my Pain)
He reads too much into everything, even the things that are inexistent. The schism between fiction and reality for him doesn’t exist, ask him about surreality he’ll tell you he’s been having all these amazing dreams about the things he fears the most, when the things that he has affection for are a nightmare away.
His is of terminal jealousy that eats him from the inside out, if there was a chemo he would give it a try. He forms his opinions based on those things that he sees, the things that he perceives to be true, especially the untold ones. He is desperately interested in how those things would make you feel and how you’d react to such intimate moments. The moments that you’d be happy without him. Sometimes he rather hurt in silence knowing that you’re happy on his behalf.
He’s a flawed perfectionist, or tries to be one, and thinks everyone should be perfect for the world or less for each other, or at least try making the world a less miserable place to be in. He plays every episode in his mind before they happen, mostly dark ones, and regurgitates the idea of happy endings, but that’s because he’s never found one, or articulately, the blissful moments he finds are merely based on pretense.
He has zero chills for disappointments, and finds second chances as luxuries only found in heaven, and forgiveness a subtle art of stupidity. When everything doesn’t go to his plan, he gives them up. Making him to self destruct, the good that he ought to have, he renders useless.
He loves too much, and forgets quickly, making ache the only beat his heart can ever dance to. He’s loved plenty of times, and all his lovers have left him scarred, every encounter left him cold, with a void sealed on the surface, yet hollow inside. He has died a thousand times in the hands of everyone who has touched him, but those he has had encounters with have lived longer, having been immortalized.
Any attempts of knowing him are futile, especially when he shows disinterest, and easy when he thinks you can save him. Even so, getting to know him is as sad as grief gets. But here’s the paradox of it all, once you get inside, you’ll want out, and when you get out you’ll crave for him only except there’s getting out and no coming back.
There's no photo of him on picture frames, except endless spaces in the places he once sat with friends, who never remember him - the ones he once trimmed fingers with. He was once there but no one recalls him being there. He will be remembered as the one who never talked much but said a lot, or nothing at all. He's rarely talked about, he's like a fling between a mister and his mistress. He tries not to be merged in the complexities or the simplicities of mundane moments, he stands aside and observes in silence as they unfold.
Life's briefer that way, he thinks, everyone dies all the same. He's had soliloquies with death. Even so, death has personally sent him rejection letters.
His search for perfectionism has led him to whiskey and a smoke, and like the smoke abandons the blunt he has felt utmost loneliness, and sometimes he has felt free and desired to fly, when he gets high. Making him scribble notes on paper, creating a world he know best and breathes life into them unintentionally to find a thing he can call family, a thing that can love him back, a thing to call his own. He seeks to find home.
The words have haunted him occasionally, that he has forgotten who he is. But what's the point?
Thing is, you can never run from who you are, and as such he has called it quits,
And went out of his wits,
Sat on the counter, selling melancholies to the bartender, parted his penis and pennies aloof in exchange for a shoulder to cry on,
Only to find himself seated on the table mawling over incomplete manuscripts.
The only things he wallows in are
Hurts, aches, whiskey, smoke, pen and paper.
Hurts, aches, whiskey, smoke, pen and paper,
Hurts, aches, whiskey, smoke, pen and paper.
He loses his mind sometimes.
I lose my mind all the time.
Phill Ibsen
(Master of Descriptions)
