Vortex of discontent
I can feel a dull silence emerging from my gut. A void that is wanting to be filled, an unidentifiable restlessness. I feel like an empty earthen pot that yearns to be filled but refuses to fill itself with anything around. Like a dysfunctional digestive tract that vomits what it consumes: it starves seeking nourishment, dies seeking life.
I fill the void with words whose impotence mocks my pen. Every form that this ink assumes deforms its intention. This is an exercise in futility. The arrow that misses its mark conveys an intent that is frivolous.
A desire, a quest fulfilled only by a conquest. A future, a dream that invades the present. A word, a form that colors a dormant darkness.
Existence is a mould for disharmony. Its violations are defects in its design. The aberrations isolate themselves with an immutable hope. A hope that is abstract - formless, since it defies existence. Is it a self-absorption that is so vain that it fails to see its solipsism?