The warm, soothing rays of the autumn sun touch my hands as I stretch them into the air. I sit in my own asylum, the solace for the hurt soul – a tattered bench in the corner of the park. I always come here, when I am sad, when I think life is unbearable and it’s no place for me on this earth.
Here, I used to spend another life. It seems so long ago and unreachable. Like it was cut from me with a surgical knife. I was happier, more lively, YOUNGER then. I didn’t know many things and made a lot of mistakes, but I carried them with head high and hope.
When I sit on this bench now, my bench, from long ago, I feel only nostalgia. The filtered afternoon sun kissing my skin through the canopy of leaves makes me remember. And my soul silently weeps, even if obviously, it has no real reason to do so.
Listening to A Gothic Romance (Red Roses For The Devil’s Whore) by Cradle of Filth. Somehow, strangely, fits my current mood. I feel like I come back to my oh so gothic roots.