La Mienne

The passing sounds of cars echo through the empty halls, resonating- the path before is daunting, replete with forks and bends. Each passing minute lingers on like the morning dew on rose buds: behind me I hear sounds of the past beckoning me. Society calls, egging me on to choose.. I recall the simple nature of my childhood; books scattered, empty torn pages of prose and poems that defined each days passing. I seemed to live for others, fearing the scorn of friends upon non conformity to their rules. Solitude with each passing frame, is a welcome breath of air: to hide away into the void of anonymity. Do I seek recognition? I am glad to realise that it is not the case, for why would I want to be the object of society's obtuse scales of judgement. Public mouring they say, obsessive they called, strange- are we all mourning for each passing wake of life, trying to be something that we are not? The realisation that we are foolishly wading through the swamp and derelict waste that threatens to engulf us, is but a fleeting moment of relief. The dust settles, and yet, in a dark corner, I seem to await the knocking gables of acceptance and the open arms of friends. Upon this new found darkess that seemingly guides me, I welcome you with arms wide stretched. I seek nothingness... I seek the void, the tiny pocket universe within which I could just be ME...