Living Matilda

These days, I’ve been feeling smaller and smaller. Helpless and back to being Roald Dahl’s living Matilda. I shouldn’t be aging backwards. But it is either this or the monsters gliding under an ocean of sky, the evils are becoming stronger and I am reduced to no more than a fragile piece of art. “I’m right and you’re wrong, I’m big and you’re small, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Suppressed, weathered and too careworn to exhibit. Only I am reduced to a powerless existence chafing under the debris of the world’s shameless diseases within the people’s souls. I do not have much light left, and even at this direful point I’d rather all my aseptic flames ashen and extinguish than having to turn to feeding off of the scathing cruelty of some third shallow sentience.

We are going to save the world—only it is no more than a hopeless quest. They have compressed my existence into the only distorted form their uncivilised mind could wrap around. That isn’t me. Low creeks, unsound, a wisp of shallow North Wind helplessly opposing corruption like immaturity of some nuisance, a head-on attitude, too emotional, too heart-driven, too alive. Their misperception is nothing but grey fluff; much like dirtied clumps of poorly shaven wool.

This selflessness of mine, they disapprove with reproachful side-glances and utter disbelief, their hollow skulls skip past these innocent notions entirely. All good hearts cannot mirror their souls. After all, hurting the world in my presence is hurting me. A concept in which shallowness can never reflect upon itself, their existence, only skin-deep, is no more than a dried up creek. I could’ve been the rain that soothes the direness of their thirst, but in gluttony they riled me up into a thunderstorm. Their lives could have been greatly bettered, only if they had used a fracture of humanity.

Honesty is key. Life’s only obligation is to give. Any man who thinks he can extricate anything out of life will leave the world emptier than when he had first arrived.

This isn’t about me. Who am I but a ridiculous heart and never ending rain? I am nothing but heightened awareness and reckless actions concocted from a bottomless space unconstrained by time. Only if I can implode and take refuge inside, untouched, untarnished and most importantly, whole. Give me six years. Six years from now, I will take off on a walk and leave forever.

Give me six years to better the world and its monsters.

“the only thing permanent about true love is the pain you feel when it goes so turn your back on forever run from the past as it explodes you are a mirror image of a god you’ll never know who created hell to show you how to be alone break the heart of the one you love to serve the one you fear so used to self abuse by now because the end is always near and you’re a mirror image of a girl you’ll never know who waits in hell so you don’t have to be alone”



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