Nomad Writer

We’re often oblivious to the occasional anguish that comes from building close relationships. It’s as if we are under some anesthetic spell, numbing the pain of silver hooks sinking deep into our hearts and deceiving us with idyllic visions of oblivion.

(Or perhaps I’m a pessimist, perspective purposely poisoned by the fact that everyone I grew attached to drifted from my side, leaving me to wander a crumbling utopia).

But when the anesthetic wears off and the blissful paradise bleeds its vibrant colors to the soiled monochrome of reality, the sharp anguish of those hooks is realized. And freeing myself demands a brutal tugging because my heart stubbornly clings to memories of that fleeting paradise.

And I’m left sore, insides eviscerated in a ruthless, crimson agony. Still raw. Still bleeding. It’s almost as if these wounds will never scab over; with each breath, my chest heaves with despair.

Time heals all wounds they say, but I wish time would hurry up and take this turmoil away.