Dark Horse Arts and Sciences

Optimism. I have tried to practise it through the dark times of my life. But optimism resembles that running cloud that pours for some fraction of time a little bit of sprinkle and then vanishes into the depth of the infinite sky. Even though I have achieved that level of positivity, my too intelligent mind seems to have some issue with it as it tries to ponder over every tiny thing bit by bit, scrutinizing the actions and their repercussions. My brain as it may sound to you too dense and foolish is a source of utter detest and abhorrence. It induces in me thoughts so paranoid and hallucinatory that indeed materializes into some form of reality in the coming days. Yet I try to control it to listen to me sometimes as it just can’t go on like this forever, that my brain would be influencing my life in such a manner of negativity.
Well, it’s not like it’s all negative and nothing productive since it is due to this brain of mine that I am writing this piece. However bleak or thick this piece may get, it’s still a creation of my unfathomable, imaginative brain that still has the competence to produce something worth reading.
Well enough of me and my brain. This piece is not just the outcome of my brain or mind or whatever as this couldn’t have been possible without the push of someone who really admires my work and who, in fact, does not only read my work but also, drown herself in the depth of it. Seldom has there been any reader of my writings who profoundly delves herself into the musings of my rather bleak, utterly dull and revulsive pieces of writing. She enjoys readings that immerse her in a melancholic way rather than in a merry way, which I completely can relate to since I myself am an avid reader of melancholic novels, novels that instigates in me something so sad and horrendous that I would feel the earth crumbling before my feet due to that heavy sadness. Well, I know I exaggerated a bit yet I love pieces with pessimistic, nihilist approach. That reader of mine, she is herself a writer of melancholy, always drenched in the blues of sad oceans, infinite skies of loathsome emotions. She is a writer of my calliber, even better I would presume, someone I look forward to and even think her as a competition, who knows we may develop some sort of rivalry in the publishing industry, like those old days where writers used to have that banter, that healthy competition. Anyway, that’s just me teasing.
Well, I started with something and now ending with something completely random. This is one of my major flaws or drawbacks you might assume, as I have always dived into one emotion and as the piece progresses, somewhat left that behind and flew away into another country of unknown musings with different stories altogether. Anyway, maybe that’s a flaw, or maybe that’s some inherent fallacy, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I just want to be left like this, flawed, imperfect and uninteresting.