The Lost Art of Words



The world, my world is topsy-turvy that is to say the least. Like most men who have lost much of their ways and ideas that define what the world means to them. I try, I try to both live and define what that is all that is all around me. In this vagueness is my salvation, so I fear I will find. Such damnation like the unlucky stars that burn up in a streak, I fear for my life to be such haphazard ordeal. Aimlessly I wander from existential crisis to consequential crisis, consequential to moral and from moral to back. Crisis after crisis I jump like a well-trained and ill-brained dog that knows not what to do but what it is taught to do.

Feeble is my heart so is my wantonness. Feeble is my thought and the grip that holds my pen. Flows not words but blood strained utterances, feeble cacophonous mutterings. Effortless fluency has ceased to be and in its place has risen a dauding emptiness, an exonerated decadence of mental faculty. Confused and intoxicated, devalued and misguided, all the stark reminders of a lost art and it’s ever the more lost artist.

A search into the dungeons of my soul is all I can. Searching for a muse that might still be wandering in it’s dark alley ways. Lost in the catacomb of lost memories, some forgotten some deliberately wished away, slowly feeling and tumbling his way there about. There in its moss ridden walls I might find the old words that in an ungodly fervour I scratched ages ago. Neither do I have that fervour nor it’s feeble descendants, all that were lost. In this age of impatient discoveries all that is left is hope, life’s one last beacon to desperately cling on to.

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