nostalgia

Shadows of your memories crawl stealthily over my imagination,
as the shades of my existence stretch from dawn to dusk.
Every new day brings on its own challenges,
trivial tasks distract my attention,
or may be your thoughts distract me.

Idealism

May be idealism knows no fate other than disillusionment and may be all dreams are no more than idols, sacred idols made of cold stone. Strong yet lifeless...dense yet hollow. May be all hopes are illusions and with time they fade away.

I have often wondered, what is worse: fading away of a hope or a dream breaking before its realization. Nonetheless the pain remains. No matter how realistic one might feign to be and how lasting the pretense may seem, reality dawns soon. And its bitterness runs deeper than any sense of survival.

It took me forever to recover from my first disillusionment. And soon after I dared to yearn again, deceit struck back. It was hard to hold faith already; almost unthinkable to imagine any better, almost forbidden to practice optimism. Yet I feel there is always room; room to realize worse, capacity to bear more and will to survive much else,

My will seemed fragile, I guarded it every moment. I wonder when, why or how,
I lifted the guard. And soon another dreamland was flooded. It came as a surprise yet I wonder how unpredictable it really was. Has it always not been the same?
Is the difference anymore than just time and name?

Idealism needs to be fueled by passion

Idealism needs to be fueled by passion, and compassion drains one of all energy. I wonder how the optimism of romantics survives the despair that darkens silent moments. Uncertainty runs cold and deep, and no matter how cherished the nostalgia, some scars never heal. Time is a cruel companion. Its bitterness is as intense as the black of one’s own shadow. It crawls with the soul always like a faithful sorrow, faithful as a friend, whose words are bitter yet true.

It was always hard to accept reality but now the refuge of denial has lost its charm. I wish I kept my haven intact, I wish I only worshipped my refuge as a sacred idol, an idol always to be sanctified but never embraced.

Valued dreams are like silence. They break once worded. And dreams, once broken, shatter. New dreams are a possibility for some but who can mend broken hearts, when the wounds run deeper than the hope of life and even the instinct of survival.

why do i feel the way i do?

I feel the way I do because this is how I am. What makes me low today is externally triggered only to the extent to which my intrinsic sensitivity embraces it. My disillusionment is as much a consequence of naive idealism as exposure to bitter reality. My discontent arises from my expectations to an equal degree as this world's inability to provide what I yearn. My alienation towards the world I inhabit is an indication of both my resistance towards the external and others' limitations regarding an understanding of myself.

It is neither the self nor the other whom I can solely indict with my misery. The onus of my assumed anguish lands upon both my within and the external.

No matter how much I try to break away from the invisible chains of the norms that restrict me, I always feel more constrained. On the contrary not the will of this entire universe can release me from where I imprison myself (under the clouds of despair).