A Cosmic Speech
Frankly speaking, if I was to venture out of denial, I would be an astronaut as I am now while writing this. I would tell you how I feel truly as long as my oxygen supply lasts. First, you should know that I am an artist now. Klexos is the art I've been effortlessly embracing well almost effortlessly. It requires indestructible hopelessness, impressive passiveness, cold nerves, long periods of empty time, and of course, an available range of memories ready to be called upon each time you embark on your artistic craziness. I am attached to it by now. In fact, I live this art. It is my obsession, the only way I know to be. The convenience is what drew me to it, swayed me to become the devoted artist I am now. No wonder, I find it hard to let it go. The art itself was born out of our inability to let go. Most days, I don't need a painter's hat to start the expressive swings of the hand, the colourful splashes, or the exquisite details. Most days, I don't even question the final piece. To be honest, I forget that I am an artist every day. When I rarely am not, novelty is trying to see the light of day, someplace on the canvas is left for the unusual. Klexos thought me to marvel at a kenopsia that is so evident, so obvious. My life, at the moment, is ever so similar to a vacant place I visit from time to time when I am an astronaut. I recall the liveliness that used to be in here. I superpose the noise, the movement, the smiles, the chase, the adrenaline, the chores and the dreams on the dull abandoned view I see. Sometimes, the difference strikes me. Other times, it leaves me the same. It depends on how numb I am, how delusional.
I amuse myself with various moments of tengency when dwelling on the past as it was bores me. Otherwise, I clench my hands into a fist, a ritual to somehow gather the courage I need to inspect my life now. My inspection ends with a nodus tollens all the time. So, I go back to being an artist and end up nostalgic, and if nothing is left for me to be nostalgic about, I turn to anemoia. Everything varies from ups to downs or the other way around. When I feel better, I get overwhelmed with yuyi, and I crave warmth. Onism propels me so high that I long to do more as quickly as possible. Sonder reminds me that I am not that special. Then, desperation comes with vemodalen. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I search for help in everything. I cry for it in an opia or seek comfort in people's socha. I reach an ambitious peak again, koinophobia hits me, and I fall once more. At both my best and my worst, zenosyne and alazia remain mumbling voices that I try to ignore all the time at all costs. The lutalica inside of me feels lost anyway, and the furthest it is from settling down, the further I am from the truth. Overall, what I wanted to say is that I can't part from a constant sense of paro.
Inspired by the dictionary of obscure sorrows
Thank you for helping me put into words what I failed to articulate for so long.
