Visceral

When we first met, I was mending a broken heart. The flame inside of me was dowsed by the incessant flood of nihilism and pessimism I was drawn to. And my most recent lover, he promised freedom and wings to soar to new heights–but he neglected to inform me I would need such wings to escape the raging wildfire of his temperament. His wildfire was suffocating, using up the oxygen I thrived on, stifling the flame I worked relentlessly to nurse back to health.

Here I stand. The pendulum swings the other way, as it always swings, never with a moment of rest. Pretty things and insightful words fall short of their mark; they weave lies and instill deceitful hope of a better tomorrow. I would cast off such veiling, in search of a more efficient mechanism of self-love and inspiration.

The truth rests easier upon my tongue. It has a healthy weight these days, no longer crushed under the pedestal of perfection. No longer twisting in search of sugar coating, the crystalline gentility that drips from my words. I would see such sweetness turned sour if it offered but a moment of reprieve from the conscience that afflicts me. 

Published by Atlas Beaumont

Writer, philosopher, sociologist. Day job in education. Lover of cats, coffee, cinema, and all things good.

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