Listening to Dispossession by Katatonia… the first chords evoke memories of my first days at the old room in my mum’s house. Heartbroken and seemingly in love with my miserable state; positively intoxicated with the lingering gloom that made those days – in hindsight – ever so significant.
How different, the sadness that plagued me then, and yet so similar. Tired of feeling, tired of caring, tired of having little choice but to live through my emotions. Tired of myself. The same yet not, for seemingly different reasons, of the same nature.
I feel broken and disheartened. Reasons for joy marred by irrational idiocy of those I have – perhaps feebly – deemed worthy of my love.
Trying not to turn into self-hatred, as I would back then. I’m not that stupid anymore. No. I’m just unbelievably tired. Drained. Dead.
I’m in a vicious cycle of my own devising; the gears of this mechanism rusting into a prison of contempt.
Linger as the dead do, I wish I could. Linger as a brown, withered leaf adrift on running water, at the mercy of the currents and content to go swiftly to my compost heap.
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