In an effort shrug off the wreckage of the past, I decided to go out. Briskly descending the stairs, bottle in hand, I emerged into a soft mist. The moisture touched my face like soft kisses. My eyes misted too before I drained the bottle and smashed it against the building and proceeded at a brisk pace.
The bar was dimly lit with soft, red lights that turned the garish surroundings into a flurry of crimson shadows. I thought it funny that I would come to a bar to be alone, but then again sometimes you never feel more alone than when in the midst of a crowd.
Here lies the problems of passion. We are given high highs and low lows and as I ordered another drink I could feel the pendulum in full swing. By adapting to these outward catalysts, I am shedding skins. You could call it growth, but that would also be indicating a positive change.
These days, I am not sure that I recognize the eyes looking back at me from the mirror. They are too hard and sharp for my tastes. And while there is still a warm spark and a mischievous glint, they look tempered by something...pain, perhaps. Yes, I know that time will heal all wounds. I have been told this time and time again. But no one tells you that these wounds leave scars that will never go away, serving to remind us of a time before pain, where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.
Some would call this depression, but I am afraid that I would have to disagree. Maybe it was at the beginning, but time has caused it to evolve into something else. We can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness with its nostalgia and the art that we create from it. Maybe it is not healthy, but then again artists were never really known for being healthy people. Maybe we are to blame but placing ourselves in situations that stimulate our creative process.
With these thoughts swimming in my mind. I left the revelry behind and ascended the steps that would take me into the night.
I love you...but I have chosen darkness.
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