Is This Remorse?

I find myself on the threshold of being alone again, without the warmth I have grown used to, yet unencumbered by the onus of another’s emotions which has heretofore bound me in a torpid lull. All things that flare with passionate light must in turn fade; it is fallacy to fight the progression. Without your arms to hold me, without this crutch I have leaned upon for far too long, I stand unattached but not lonely, for what I have always relied upon, above all other things, has been myself. Solitarily, but with solidarity of purpose and volition, I go on.

Yet I can't help but to think that the moments of my youth have been replaced by the hours of maturity; I can feel the days slipping, converging on the years of aged aeons, pressing on headlong toward the decades of amenable existence.

The callow caprices of old fade unto cold rationality, and take with them the eyes of inexperience which saw only in shades of black and white, but viewed the world without reservation, without stipulation, and were not afraid to believe consummately or to act with conviction.

Today’s eyes are shaded by the inconsiderable daily details of life: we don’t have time to think in these old terms of black and white because gray abstracts and facts and figures obscure so may of our ideals.

I am convinced, this what they (you) want.

Here I will stay forever traveling through cryptic channels and electric wires of my mind, an image of starlight mingling with moonlight; the village of insane lies is risen once again. The truth and fiction melt together in a swirl of blurred delineations and muddy gray areas. Reality is lost to me forever, so I join them, the masked figures who dance in the park at a quarter to midnight. They are the Introspectres, the bringers of daydreams and the steganographic truths. Day by day they tell us who we are, but we do not listen. We choose instead to sit jaded and satiated at the feast of universal anonymity and drink from the cup of disbelief.