Mediocrity.

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It was mesmerizing. I can tell you that. The way Darkness was inhaling me was mesmerizing. I counted seven stars on the sky, a few humans around and the speed of the cars racing; infinite; at least in my mind. In reality, there was just a soul beside me, humidity in the air and a few cars running sixty miles per hour. But I did not want to see the reality because my surreal dream was so absorbing.

I went back to it and I began rambling again while staring at the spark of the lamp post.

We conversed about the mediocrity of the human soul; me and the universe. I had a soul beside me listening but my mindset was elsewhere. I was imagining myself on an untidy bed, a soul losing its’ mind into my eyes, between my legs.

Devouring a soul and lifting it up to the defining line of the universe it’s the most exquisite gift a human can receive. Keeping it on the ground, sane and steady, can cause the syndrome of mediocrity. Judging the corruption of the soul would be a great mistake if you do so gentlemen. Define happiness if you can though and you will understand what I am mumbling about.

Perhaps you’re not interested in my definition of it but I am free to state it anyway.

Devouring happiness: the liberty of the soul to collude with the walls of dispair while reflecting itself into the depth of a moment’s realisation.

The eyes, love. The eyes. Lose yourself into the mournful excitement of those eyes.

Mediocrity. Lose it. Give it up. Chase your soul to the end of the world. Do not keep your greatness intact.

Ruin yourself, stay still and feel the adrenaline of your blood. Now you’re not mediocre anymore.

But, can you do that?

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A ponder on a human soul.

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You asked me where have I gone. I answered ”here”. But my voice was silent. I was mute, incapable to scream loudly where I am. But I’m here. You don’t know this because you’re blind. You cannot see me through your majestic shades and I fear there is nothing to be done anymore. The volume of my voice cannot increase anymore. My heart beats are too loud. But nobody can hear them. Neither you. Your faces are masked. You wear a mask of ego. The neighbour wears a mask of money. I wear a mask of pain. My friend wears a mask of nothingness. So that’s it. We are all wearing masks, covering our inner selves, imploring for someone to break them without giving our permission. Don’t you think that’s too much to ask for from another human being? Who is he to shave away my pain? Who am I to fight his ego?
We do not bother ourselves. We try nothing and we accomplish nothing. We starve ourselves and then we’re fed so we don’t die. Isn’t it ironic? We starve ourselves from truth and we’re fed with big fat lies. In the morning we complain about our situation and at night we hope for the best tomorrows. But we do nothing. We breath in polluted air and exhale some more garbage to the world. We become an intoxication for our own kind. We are drugged by other human beings; knowing that they can either be our paradise or our inferno. I suppose the next rhetoric question I should be asking is whether that’s a good or a bad thing, but I am not. I am sure you are already asking yourself that or something similar. Aren’t you?
If you are not, maybe you should worry. Or you must definitely worry.
My soul is made of glass. The outline is thick and forms a perfect circle. It resembles to a ball of fire. Sometimes steel. Mostly though it’s glass. It can break easily but the fire still exists, containing it, keeping it intact. My mask is made of pain. Some may say it resembles to my soul. Others claim there is no pain inside me, just a failure that I’m trying hard to bring upon myself. I don’t know which theory applies in my case but I wish none are true.
My heart’s state is variable. There is mostly pain; the kind of pain that consumes me, burns my insides and somehow feeds me hope. My soul, I’ve seen, is more than glass and fire, or steel. My soul is blue, green and red. My soul is a mixture of clouds and oceans, soaked summer grass and extracts from extraterrestrial lands. My soul is made of what I am fed and I dare saying, my food is love and hate.