On a few occasions, I have felt something rather unique.
As I morosely alternate between distraction, lies and suffering, I catch brief glimpses of something else.
Something difficult to describe.
On a few occasions, I would feel such gratitude I would contently surrender what is left of my life.
After years and years of medication, I am nothing but an amalgamate of echoes.
When I recall those strange moments, they seem like someone else’s memories.
But on said moments, what I felt left a deep gash; only not one that festers, but one that sings.
That which I have felt is but the bite at the forbidden pome.
I call it the Aesthetic Epiphany.
Something with no reason to be but that nevertheless is...
Something that congregates concealed potentialities and explicit traits;
It arises these gaps of possibilities on my mind; and these gaps are poetry itself.
Only when I am before my Aesthetic Epiphany I can breath without weights on my shoulders...
But, I have become obsessed with my own wounds, so much so that I can no longer veer away from the acute pain they unleash.
I have become a ghost. But I am not yet gone, for my eyes will eventually catch that elusive flickering...
And they will bring me back before the warm mist of those feelings...
And there I will be unable to ask for anything else...