Poetic Melancholy
I wake up at 3 am, tossing and turning as if to break a sweat,
Asking myself when people ask where they will be in the next 10 years I ask where will I be tomorrow?
Will I be alive, should I be alive if I’m alive?
Will death befriend me? Will it dish me up poisonous food? Will it dagger my back?
Endless questions about death fill my mind like a bartender filling my favourite glass of a very special blend of cognac with the acronym V.S.O.P on it.
And oh not the death you had in mind I am talking about a mental death,
One where I am the only one attending my funeral, one where I’m 3 people and 1 thing, the funeral attendee, the priest, the dead man and a black umbrella. one where my obituary is started with “Before he died, He was on the verge of greatness…”
I cry for myself, weep for myself and mourn myself and when the alarm goes off at 6am, I take a shower as if to rid myself of the darkness and go to work as If I never went to my own funeral, as If I never died, as If everything was still alive. I exhale, I put on a smile and a show if and whenever I had the audience and carried on fighting like a soldier, like a boxer, like a wounded deer at the canine of death, I escaped death in reality, in wakefulness. Once gain I hustle. Once again, I live.