Werewolf Heart

I’ve lost faith. The world I’ve known is slowly starting to crumble into an obscure caricature of what it once was. The days bleed into one another, a byproduct of the nights stealing away any chance to sleep, any chance to let the fear go in the form of some lingering nightmare. I’ve constructed a vehicle for my own demise…not of the physical, but rather of the person I’ve become; everything must be torn down in order to start again.

At a glance it may seem that the backs have been turned, but their hands never seemed to be outstretched to begin with—I think the better explanation may be found in my willingness to accept the situation and instead of brushing away the stinging pain of disappointment and realization, I find the best response is uninterrupted abandonment. The heart would long for salvation, but there is nothing to save, it has all been a forged situation made for its comfort, made for its convenience, as it’s no longer comfortable and convenient, there’s no reason to toss out a lifesaver, but rather let what’s been floundering just drown in into its own darkened abyss.

We are all imperfect, the flaws we hold, though they come together in a divine sense of chaotic bliss, they are the aspects of ourselves which will inevitably tie us permanently, or forever drive those nails into the proverbial coffin. For a time we can fool ourselves and believe this to be a concept that can be fought, that can be denied its grasp over us, but it is much stronger, it is more assured in its actions—it’s unbiased and unwavering, and in that it is beautiful, and terrifying to no extent.