Another Friday evening and the TV’s on but I’m not really watching it. I’m sure there’s plenty I could be watching, but I’d rather get lost in casual conversation on a comfy couch with friends. But that pleasure has been lost through the decades of friends and family I’ve lost. But in reality it’s nobody’s fault but my own that I sit here alone. Through hundreds of miles of isolation and the complete loss of my mental faculties, I’ve placed myself in this cocoon of self-preservation.
But the tears I cry have long since dried, through medication and scattered self-meditation to alleviate the pain I was put through. Jovial to a fault, I wear a pristinely polished mask without blemish or blame. Carefully concealing the scars and wounds I carry. I don’t mean to carry on in some sort of pity trap. For I learned long ago that such things only rust the hardened armor our parents embraced.
So I sit here in self-isolation only poking my head out to see if it’s safe. Sending out lines of encouragement like some much confetti at a hero’s parade. Only to watch it all get swept away like so much wasted time. But I carry on with a smile painted on my face. Never knowing when the weight of depression and blame will take over again. But confession is supposed to be good for the soul. So maybe this is the time to purge myself once again of the demons that steal my self-preservation.
But the tears I cry have long since dried, through medication and scattered self-meditation to alleviate the pain I was put through. Jovial to a fault, I wear a pristinely polished mask without blemish or blame. Carefully concealing the scars and wounds I carry. I don’t mean to carry on in some sort of pity trap. For I learned long ago that such things only rust the hardened armor our parents embraced.
So I sit here in self-isolation only poking my head out to see if it’s safe. Sending out lines of encouragement like some much confetti at a hero’s parade. Only to watch it all get swept away like so much wasted time. But I carry on with a smile painted on my face. Never knowing when the weight of depression and blame will take over again. But confession is supposed to be good for the soul. So maybe this is the time to purge myself once again of the demons that steal my self-preservation.
RSS Feed