I’m in need of stitches. The wound in my heart is a gaping hole, and life blew it into shape.
My soul needs morphine, because the pain I feel is a vortex into reality’s intro. It says,
“Hey! Welcome to the what-is-really-is and is really happening to you, because it is. By the way, you either wake up, or you do and somehow hope that you remember what hoping really is.”
The sky is grey and not blue. Love is red and not anything I thought I knew. I can’t find paradise so I’ll search for something new. The rain falls where it may, and pain is selfish. It’s the most selfish thing I ever knew. I can’t find paradise, so I’ll search for something new.
The day you find out paradise doesn’t exist;
That is the day you see life in an unbelievably different perspective. The lenses in the glasses that sit on your inward nose, propped up for your inward eyes to see are suddenly replaced with this livid, vivid inevitability- life.is.real.
That is the day you writhe within yourself and wishfully wring all the dissonance outside to the cosmos from whence it came. Instead, it seeps and seeps further still, discovering uncharted virgin territory and tainting it with its flag of blackness. Its empire slowly begins to spread within the home that by right should be yours. You are usurped and exiled within yourself.
That is the day you simply think its attempt, a phase; an interim opportunity for inward reorganization. Interim however, has stretched on into years and has calcified into your new frame. Your flesh has obediently wrapped itself under its new master’s bones. You look in the mirror, that is everyone around you, and you see the monster you tried so hard to keep under lock and key, come out.
That day, the anger, the pain, loss and tumult blinds you efficiently and completely. Like the brightest light, it is deadening rays that strike into your eyes and bore at the back of your skull. Your mind starts dripping through the fractures, and just like that, you’re are ebbing. You see the black darkness after the white light and your ears ring, as if it were a bomb blast. You search. You run and faint in search of respite; you search for paradise.
That day, you sit down on the floor of your college dorm room and realize that paradise doesn’t exist. Paradise wasn’t the things you longed for because they are yours, and the usurper still reigns on your would be glorious throne. You realize paradise isn’t a place. It isn’t a person. It’s not a time. Paradise doesn’t exist.
That day you understand that even in that knowledge, you won’t stop searching. You can’t stop searching.
You know you search and search, but won’t find paradise, till the day that you find it.
After all paradise, doesn’t exist. Paradise does.
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