And the the question still perches itself on my mind: Am I still capable of love ?
Filled with distressed tentacles of self-loath and dispair, guzzling with the teeth I grew in the gullet of loneliness my profound and hankering wish of someday, in the shadows of a tepid june night laying down unreserved in the crooks of some other flesh than my own. Devouring bliss senseless and remorseless because my full heart knows I was being given this lovely venture willingly; most importantly somebody, in the total dark gloom will be parcouring the pathways of my soul, eating on the tables of every room the forsaken zeal of life called love. I suppose that even reaching the point of articulating the question is in itself an act of acceptance and realisation of the coming truth; a grim smear that have been developing, burgeoning on my consciousness for quite sometime now, in fact being aware that I was suffering from a shortage of feelings, a form of an emotional liability or a spiritual hindering that made me fail in crossing the human-experience frontier. In that parcel of teal mephetic land that extends itself to the ulcerated limbs of my pallid, evaporating body. I mourn the girls I couldn't save with adolescent love, movie tickets down the boulevard and a splint of sunshine from the dawn of romance; I never had that kind of infatuation with a person nor someone ever did with me, I was transparent enough not to hint at anything of myself to the exterior yet ambiguous to the point of dissolving interests and closing talk opportunities by the second I hold eye contact for too long. I've already reached my point and my answer for what really matters but I cannot for the life of me sease to think about how superficial warmth might feel like against my cheeks how certain gestures would make me react behave under a different kind of tension a sweet welcomed tension coming from pleasure and comfort, that version lays an undepicted mystery in the catacomb of me. Someone I'll never know because I'm the most uncapable of love.
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Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)
PoetryKillin' a few with a smile is what's called romanticism of war 🫀 Short texts about my mental affliction
