Whimsical Chimaeras

Whimsical chimaeras blossomed in my garden of extravagant flowers and frenetic trees. When the silent valley of dreams was crammed with forbidden hopes, and the stars never hesitated to shine. It was my delusional fantasy and my secret inner world, where I could be free from mortal dogmas, made of aberrant rules.

Many nights I have wandered, embracing my silliness and uncommon turmoil. Foolishness was my only state of mind, and every portal could unlock for me. I wept, and I sighed, as if it were my only way to express myself. The cold night wind hushed my aching heart, filling it with fear and torment.

The snow painted the soil with white crystalline hues, while my slumber had kept my heart from aching more copiously. I had lost the capability to listen to melodies, but all that I could hear was a fanfare chanting death and defeat. My whimsical chimaeras had transformed into shadows and darkness.

I had become a stranger in my own realm, which I couldn’t recognise any longer at all. I felt like I was stripped of all my delusional dreams, which I considered my only comfort and sweet haven. No candied flowers or chocolate-coated leaves prospered in my garden, which was now nothing but a land of frost and thorns.

The reality had transmuted into a sharp dagger, depriving me of every longing, for I had lost my strength to escape from that snare of descent. Melancholia burnt my heart, transforming it into an everlasting torch. I encountered no compassion or tenderness, but pointed hooks that ripped me apart.

My heart was wrapped in thorns and quills, and it bled copiously. Unbearable pangs crossed my body, reducing it to misery and dismay. Shallowness had taken over, and what appeared loudest and most false had replaced what was authentic and sublime.

Darkness, together with the moon and the stars, was a cynical witness to every single occurrence. Silence had sealed my lips, and I was no longer able to make a single sound. Definitely, my whimsical chimaeras were just a remote memory of my shattered mind.

I was already buried before dying. I was buried a long time ago by the hands of my delusional fantasies and absurd expectancies. I was conscious of my decay and that I would soon embrace my final demise. In that exquisite garden of bygone flowers, I lay in wait for my very last moment of life.
Elisabetta Esther