My story is my self-love,
Framing my existence against odds and fate.
I’ve never not been telling myself
How I relate to everything I love.
Sometimes everything means nothing
Logic draws an empty shape
A void of anxiety or dread,
The overwhelming potential of a blank page.
In confrontation with this,
My beating heart vs the blind night,
I tell the tale of “I” and “Us”
Displacing emptiness with narrative form.
The sharpened edge of reality fades,
Never abating, but making space for creation.
I draw meaning out of thin air
And weave it as I’m best able.
I exist, therefore I tell a story.
I value truth and beauty because I listen.
Every fleeting moment is somewhere
Between a comedy, tragedy, and romance,
But even the finest prose,
Is little more than painted dust,
Fractals to be discarded and neglected,
Swallowed whole by eternity.
It’s an absurd story,
Sound and fury told by an idiot,
The dearest fantasy of my heart
Like late autumn leaves.
Absurdity, my idol,
Language of passions and pleasures,
Defying inevitable complexity
To take rapture in the fantastical.
Laugh at my solemnity,
Existence makes us lunatics,
The world is a journal for mad ramblings,
And it’s a story to be loved.
By Sanya Elswyth Walma.
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