We, The Unfortunate

To speak of the unfortunate, one must endure past it: pay the toll with a fragment of the soul—if ever there was one inside them. Then, we become it.

We unfortunates roam and orbit around the unreachable peaks of the ideal; makes one tear the soul apart in hopes of making the climb to reach for some of it. This ideal never presents itself as a singular thing, yet love, in all of its malicious forms, is a recurrent face to identify it. It drags focus into the deepest of crevices. Few live a life without an encounter. Even those who do evade its arrival are seduced by poisonous poetry with the sole purpose of propagating the venomous, parasitic scents, the unborn memories sprawled on the words of this blighted literature. The curious are cursed by emotional intrigue and uneventful, empty pasts which are perceived a depressing development of their lives. They are so unknowingly blessed. Emptiness is the overlooked child of peace and fear, brought into the world malformed into horrible shapes with its unfed body stretching outlines of a torso, a face, and limbs that never were and never will be seen, but they are quiet in the mind. It is a rarity many would trade riches for, and not only monetary: innate riches such as beauty, an acclaimed surname, a unique upbringing; developmental riches such as ingenuity, success, and even knowledge; or the cosmic riches where one feels at ease by the prospect of the uncertain future and the answerless present. The existence of the word 'fortunate' is but a courtesy for those who once were considered as such but will live in agony as they attempt to return the knowledge, the cursed letters, the putrid scents of the infatuation for the ideal.

    Love thrives on ideation, paranoia, and doubt. It charms the playful corners of the awakened mind only to bury an overgrown egg that dies repeatedly at night. We yawn in the mornings and smell the decay, the failed promises, and we brush our teeth without thought. No plans to remove the roots that pierce our veins and then we wonder why the random itch, why the spontaneous pain, why the sulking moments interrupt our brightest days. We all participate in the spread, adding meaningful scenes too heavy for our brains to get a hold of what's been real, and so it discards it all progressively. We gobble the ancient propaganda with wide eyed grins, tears of joy, sighs of desperation for any of it to just happen to us. But it has, and it will. The growth is everlasting and despite of how it implodes, ravaging the innocence, it can only happen forwardly, inexplicably unending. Because time only disinters and disposes of what's been real. The ideal is undetected by nature for we are the makers of the instructions on how to run from it. And there is no running from oneself. It loops around at every step.