A Stranger Among Himself

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A Stranger Among Himself 

He sits alone among most the year. Scratching at the roof of his thoughts like a man barred to jail. Marking each day as it passes, hoping that someday all this will go away. That all the misery and suffering that is trapped inside, will fade like winter into the mouth of summer, bitter, but sweet, in the change.

And in these passing days and the carving of upon his thoughts. He feels hollow, empty, like a vase meant for flowers. But a vase left to its cavernous body upon too many flaws. Though some hands draw close to it, they peel away with disgust. Almost as if to be repulsed from its design.

And this is truly how he feels. And within crowds he is but a stranger, maybe a wave or two from acquaintances are tossed like meaningless words. And then he fades away from the crowd, back to the wall, eyes pressed into the ground like heavy stones.

His heart racing upon any who approach, as fear creeps upon his soul of not knowing what to convey or do. For an anxious tongue leeches his words, his confidence. So he minds the crowd from a distance, watching as feet dance about with pleasure.

And for him, there is no pleasure in crowds, or among his lonesome heart. But alone he feels safe, but numb to the world around him. Feeling casted out by the world like a forgotten star among a billion. Left to fade like the wick of candle with each burning moment.

And with each fading second he grows resentful of the world, of himself. Dwelling on things that do not exist, but in his mind. Glances from others draw rage, and are captured with the ravaging thoughts to tear them apart. To teach them the misery that has befallen him so deeply. His soul is drowned to the blackness that consumes like the plague, murdering with no rationale.

He is encapsulated in his own head, in his own undoing and creation of hell. All that can be heard, are but the echoes of his own thoughts. Thoughts that scar the very being of who is. And for years he torments himself with outrageous belief. Planting corrupt thoughts within his soul like a gardener to the changing of seasons. Convicting himself without evidence to base upon his thoughts. Drawing conclusions without questions, without the seeking of truth.

And for what seems like a life time, he buries himself beneath his own heart. Leaning into the gossip he assembled with his own tongue. Never to approach his own soul with forgiveness and the willingness to be.

Are you comfortable with who you are, or do you hide to fit in or runaway from the world? 


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