as above, so below

the only consolation one can seek at moments like this is: whatever will be, will be. whatever is meant to be, is meant to be.

is it resignation? is it passive acceptance of the status quo? 

i'd like to think not. because you have tried, and you believe your intuition because it has proved steadfast. so every passing moment that proves your intuition right, you die a little. the distaste in your mouth grows—like a little caterpillar turning into a moth—trapped in the carvernous cavity that is your oral cave—its walls smeared with wing powder and saliva—its bitterness overpowering your senses—your heart wrenching with a faint, almost indistinguishable pain—your heart feeling like it might also just stop any time. any time now.

what can you do? what can you do?

you're paralysed. gutted. torn. beaten. soured. ridiculed. invested. 

yes, you're still invested. you know you'd turn the other way with just a nudge. a nudge—and you'd budge. but you can't do anything. so you just shrug your shoulders and leave—walk away. and so slowly, this, like all others, will be distant memories you can only wish to return to—can only think about fondly and feverishly and pathetically in the cold and still of the night, where the quietude is so deafening you could cry. and wait. and hope. and cry somemore.