A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog
Misdeeds of the guideline of a soul, never to be fully understood.
Life is really a very difficult game. So, what would I be without this real and honest desire for freedom against a destructive tyranny?
I don’t know, sometimes I just feel, and I just go on this path of everlasting sorrow and dark grief. Sometimes the sadness beholds the sky, everything looks like yesterday at the corner of misguided street full of nothingness and shame. It’s a world full of despicable gloom on which I live. But how often I can speak of it?
Life can be very meaningful. The everlasting suffering and misery would find its road towards nothing. I think life could be pictured as a never-ending train. And the dying trends of my sorrowful soul travels around so dreadfully, so painstakingly dead, spreading sicknesses all around, that I all castles I’ve built in the air have stricken me with forgotten fears. In this tower of surreal nothingness, despair is almost a belief.
How could I think of weaknesses all alone in this world? I am what I really am, after I stood for the things that I believe. And I would never be senseless. I can’t accept despair as a lonely shadow. I am done with hostility and grief, all that seems unnatural for the soul in an eternal solar day. I always say that nothing in the world seems worthy of something. This may be the replacement of a solitary thought, completely alone at the tired corner of an ordinary life. Nonetheless, nothing in this world seems beautiful; I think dark skies are mostly everything that has been left. Nothing more was clean before my eyes. Only a striking and lucid emptiness. The horrible ordeal of a precarious distress. Alone at the sight that perpetuates the misery that corrodes my soul. Nothing more than the mirrors of my soul.
Usually, I am so tired of everything. How could I be stranded of such a mediocre vastness consecrated to explain myself? I don’t know, I really don’t know. Humanity is desperate for redemption, they just don’t know this for a fact. Life sometimes is a very great lake of underlying misery. Life is death, sorrow, an everlasting sadness and a certainty of miserable intolerance. I learned, somehow, that every day Is the same day.
Every day is a darkness that never fades away.
Every day is green, every day is black. Every day I remember a joy and a happiness
that are never coming back. Why every day is dark, why every day is grey? Every day is always a day to forget the entire ordeals of existence and its endless horrible miseries
that persist to strike us every day.