In the stillness of the night, the sky was stormy and overcrowded with lightning and thunder. Rain was pouring down, and the wind was impetuous.
The exquisite scent of rainwater perfumed my small chamber from which I glimpsed the dark and stormy landscape.
Chaos and order alternated in my bleak soul, full of grief. A piercing funereal pain had gripped my entire essence.
Intrusive thoughts and faded hopes crowded my mind as if they were unwelcome intruders, not invited by me.
Joy and darkness unfolded like buds in my soul, becoming thorny briars that wounded my heart and tore apart my being.
The bright sun, dethroned in the sky by great threatening and dark clouds in a midsummer storm, was no longer on my visual horizon, making me reflect on my bleak and mortal fate, which condemned me to a sense of perpetual anguish.
It was as if I had lost the ability to express all that I felt in my heart, the most hidden secrets and concealed truths that I had never been able to reveal to any mortal.
My fragility had become my only resource—my shattering into pieces and severing from the source of life, from every source of life—had made me like a dead flower in a solitary valley, where a majestic and deserted tower saw its reflection in a ridiculous, nearly nonexistent pond.
My fragility had become my only resource—my shattering into pieces and severing from the source of life, from every source of life—had made me like a dead flower in a solitary valley, where a majestic and deserted tower saw its reflection in a ridiculous, nearly nonexistent pond.
Mournful shadows ruled over me.
They were the ones who decided my path and my fate.
They were invisible, yet present—and immensely powerful.
I felt like a doll, a puppet, at the mercy of their whimsical desires and decisions.
And so I perished,
by the hand of my own fears,
by the hand of my own funeral anguish,
And I became a mournful shadow myself,
No different from the others.
Lisa
