I no longer know if my habit of turning inwards when the outside becomes unbearable is healthy. Reality and its thoughtless, falsely proud sentinels force me to believe that maybe I’m disillusioned and that I should too ‘get back to my senses’ and not rely on art, music and literature to keep me going because that’s not how the world works.
But literature and art are my shields; mighty and strong against the onslaught of a callous, cruel world. I cannot for the life of me imagine surviving a day if it wasn’t for what I’ve grown and fondly cultivated inside my head. It’s a veil through which I see the world.
I do not allow many into this safe haven. Humans are difficult to trust; experts at breaking it without contrition. I’ve been a proud defender of this garden inside my head.
In my mind, the sky is swathed in wonderful, soft twilight and the horizon is pink. With swirls of silver clouds painting the sky. I sit next to a brook, bubbling and frothing, making pebbles glint and grass sway in delight. There is a book in my hand and my heart isn’t racing and a quiet breeze carries the fresh smell of mountains below. Kindness and love, quietude and empathy are in harvest.
There are portals to enter this world. Sometimes a simple, moving poem might do the trick. Sometimes just closing my eyes is enough.
The trouble lies in making new, true connections. Amidst a sea of strangers it is too risky a bet to let anyone in. Thus begins my misery of wanting to give a chance, but not receiving enough word to do so.
I cannot abandon this space which keeps me going. It’s my pristine answer to the chaos of this world. Without it I’d be as lost as a ship in a storm wrecked sea. It’s a head-on clash of utopia and dystopia.
Trouble is, I don’t know where I truly belong (do i?)
Been a while since we talked, how is everybody doing?