A Constitution of Existence
The nestling abode, ruffling beneath the verdant veins of nature’s aristocracy…perhaps I was at fault. The waxy layer of azure leaves as they entwined around me, iotas of infinity glaring back at me. I could have caterwauled within the panic rustling within our aureoles; after all who was it that left?
“Not really. I am still questioning whether I consider you a friend or not.”
“Do you have to question it?”
“Well, now I do.”, was the reverent response of a putrid conclusion, a resolution of my co-existent insanity.
How witty the conscience seemed to be, a foolish escape to ecstasy as I longed to numb the ache; the pathological torture that stemmed from the air that we both used to breathe in. My mother left…but did you really have to?
As the ravines of time slipped beneath the crevices of our melanin, we aimed to be whole once again. The unhindered integrity that we lacked as high school students vociferating underneath the blinds of intrinsic shame; you could flourish like a bloom holstering in spring but I could wither in the nooks and crannies that I used to worship. A cornered consciousness to dwell within, a massless entity only worthy of a few traces of redundant self-esteem and intellectual inadequacy, for silence is often mistaken as a retreat.
“What bigotry indeed! Do we pay to strive in an academic institution wailing with the infants of disordered parents? ‘Neurologically disordered parents’ – if I correct myself.”
Disorder. Did it cause my intrinsic conflict or did it arouse the addictive identity of coping mechanisms – self-destructive recluses of the brain perhaps. Sinking knuckles in my swollen flesh as I perambulated the nauseating hospital air, a flatline deconstructing my ramifications; my mother awaited to depart as I longed for her to stay. As I silenced my woes to devour within the interminable fear of losing – losing a sense of control behind the recurring seizures and epileptic fits encountered by my mother. I still longed to be held.
“Her life won’t be the same as before.” Bittersweet it felt, plunging into the Vale of pallor that I constituted of; we had to shrink for her to breathe. Drag behind the irascible clamor of misfortune for our vulnerabilities equated to the raven atop the sepulchre of a psychologically-challenged existence inferred to as a more rewarded act of self-pity.
“Stop playing the victim card. You’re as paranoid as your mother, no wonder you seem to be retarded too.”
Encompassing within the deafening recluses of my silence, withdrawn for the greater good of a symbiotic existence of those that I loved. Conforming into a sorts of seed, germinating prematurely to confront my giggles at a joke, my optimism in perseverance and my child-like innocence – it had to wilt away. Striding alongside my undisputed testament as I vigorously aimed to fade away for her to live – a second beside your ailing Arcady and an aeon whimpering within my abyss.
The Genres of Life 