Poetic melancholy

Risen from my ashes of contempt and shame, my words uncoiled from the knots that attempt to keep me at bay. I write among the deserted landscape, my fingers tracing my words among the sand, the words that will drift away by the blow of the winds, specks of sand spattering in your eyes. You only see a couple of grains, but they are enough to taint your vision, are they not, dear reader?

https://poeticmelancholy1.wordpress.com/2023/10/05/a-resurgence/

You choose. Or, what part of you chooses?

https://poeticmelancholy1.wordpress.com/2023/08/16/who-pulls-the-strings/

I confess! I am wickedly vile, truthfully bland, simply a voice lost in the space of the grossly large numerical world. What has my confession served as a purpose? Absolutely nothing. Do I feel enlightened, as if I am finally heard although my eyes are only met by a screen? My answer might be yes, even though I hold no relation to you. No knowledge of who you are. Does that mean confessing does not require an ulterior connection towards the listener? Such a question is brought up in my newest blog post. It is tilted, "The Confessor or the Listener. Roll the Dice."

To roll the dice of fate by deciding to look or not look at the publication. Such a saying makes me appear arrogant since I know that my words do not hold that much influence. But, the butterfly effect is an interesting concept to think about.

https://poeticmelancholy1.wordpress.com/2023/07/25/the-confessor-or-the-listener-roll-the-dice/

Vanity is the downfall of all.
This can be seen in the story of Narcissus, a Greek mythology story where the man falls in love with his own reflection. He dies due to the realization that he will never materialize as his own handsome lover. I have included a photo of him in my newest blog post. Although I do not talk about this mythology, I do talk about vanity. It is titled "What Lies Beyond Looks."

https://poeticmelancholy1.wordpress.com

I do not know how to promote myself. All I know is that it feels highly unnatural. I am not the kind that can sell an ideal image of the self. What I do know is that I desire to be heard and that this desire transcends even the hesitations, the possible embarrassments, or criticisms that might ensue. What makes all of that pain worth it? You might ask. My logic is as follows: at least I am heard. That my voice is not silenced into the void, to never be apprehended again as the words melt into the space of time. I would feel emboldened by the fact that I have fulfilled my solitary life purpose, which is to share my words, even through the mediation of a mask. My identity might be masked, but my vulnerabilities and intentions are not. My privacy is the bridge that allows me to reveal such truths without fear of being tied down to my words. It is my safety net. I can reveal the contents of my soul without the fear of being reprimanded for it in the external world. Remember that, dear reader.

Never before have I held the desire to be seen, but now it seems to pull at my soul, a thread that beckons me forward despite my fears.



Shameful, shameful hashtags.