In a matter of days school is bound to begin again, and I sit here waiting for the days to stretch themselves into weeks, for weeks to spread into years, for years to transform into an infinite set of numbers, and for time to remain ever running like a wild horse in a race against the current.
On my right hand is a cluster of courage wrapped around my fighting fist, prepared to take on this crucial challenge, a brand new battle this brand new semester brings. On my left hand are splinters of all that is left of this waging war; pieces of fear, doubt and despair summed up in a blazing ember of the unknown. At the back of my mouth, at the roof of my tongue, lies the bitter taste of this wordless loneliness and this soul-deep ennui, spilling its venom through my pallid lips.
There is poison in words as lethal as that of hemlock. I spill my sentences and drink from its cup, and wait listlessly for death to arrive in hope of purging my soul of its somberness. But in the end there is only a space, dead and blank with meaning, resonant of a struggle in immortality, the return of that which is eternal.
People always tell us to look at pain with a sense of impermanence, to think that one day it shall all come to pass. But what I have learned from this struggle is that it never ends. It conceals itself so as to mask its nature but soon enough it reveals itself in its ugliest forms. Or maybe it has always been there in front of us all along, awaiting for the proper moment to devour. Monsters we have become of our attempts to vanquish our fate. Ghastly ghouls at the mercy of the elements. Soulless creatures in a perpetual and unbroken stream of rampage and rebellion.
Behold, the life of the living dead.