“The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.”
― William Shakespeare
I must make a confession. It is neither a confession that threatens my morals, nor is it a confession that invites sordid shame. It is a confession that saddens me, more than anything. It is a sort of confession that forces me to see that getting out of the house is not a good idea and that my feet are rooted in mud and dead grass and to realize that the November rains are not here to cleanse me of dirt and soil. It is not here for me, not there for me, not anywhere at all, really, but everywhere for a cracked piece of ashwood to sod.
There was a time when I was still under a roof that I felt the logs inside my soul weigh me down. It was not a gentle tugging. It was not a puncture, not a deflation. It was a heavyweight fighter throwing me down to the floor, pinning my head and heart down kind of weigh me down. So I had burnt them, the logs. Tinder and spark. Fire and bark. I left shelter thinking I could keep myself warm. And so it goes, the tale of a burning girl in monsoon winds.
Pale fire; that is the state of my soul. It is damp, not dead. Not wounded, just hollowed. Perhaps the ambition that drifted in with the clouds of the season, with its musky vigor and tenacity, was the deception that fueled the soul. Crack open the clouds, though, and it is the tour de force that sends flames rippling into oblivion.
Or perhaps it is the pathetic desperation at which the inferno fed at, a quiet anguish that overtook. Maybe it was both, and no tarp could prepare for the free-falling downfall the deadly coupling of ambition and desperation brought.
I must also apologize. It seems as if this space has been left to collect dust, and only when I am riddled with yapping complaints do I smear my finger across the surface, spelling out H-E-L-P to a world that exists through pixels. Dust and pixels -- a forgivable mistake.
I am angst with dwindling inspiration and desperate frustration -- really, a pathetic buffoon ferociously confused. My bones are lethargic and I find myself descending into ennui once again. At this moment, on a sickeningly sunny Sunday afternoon, I wonder whether I can find colors to saturate the soul once again, or whether the fire is doomed to fade into obscurity.
CARDIGAN BY SHEINSIDE
PHOTOS BY DISCOFISSH
How do you inspire yourself?