Beginnings tiptoe from my grasp these days; shrouded in the elusive haze of my mind. Writing finite subjects in linear letters becomes a labor befitting for Hercules. I wish to break this cage and mold it, twisting its rigid definitions and cracking their connotations beyond comprehension only to remake it whole again. To break through this self imposed captivity, to raise the dull to divinity and most importantly, to create something ecstatic. 

The discordant notes of my thoughts strive for perfection. Lured by phantasmagoria, they search for fiction as soon as reality hits. But reality does not offer me inspiration anymore. Too intertwined with fiction, my mental limp negates reality to a level that could almost be insanity. 

Sweet poems that were once honey flavored dessert for me have transformed into a lifeless void that calls me back to a treasure that was once there but is now lost forever. 

Inspiration still alludes me as I struggle with syllables that fill the cavernous parts of my cranium. Boredom still haunts the dark caverns of my mind. The words I scribbled appear soulless to me, depraved of feelings, zeal and life. I've had previous encounters with the morbid parts of my soul. Reeking of depression and absurd hopelessness, these dark pockets may have had hidden demons and crimson secrets that haunt me for what I've metamorphosed into.

And what I have metamorphosed into is a river that will forever flow in one direction but yearn to surge and flow in another for all eternity. My polarity may be my handicap but it is all I have to hold onto. So I latch onto my affliction with everything I have. I latch onto them for familiarity. And I latch onto them for pain.

Inspiration still deceives me but what lingers is the ghost of the words that I had formulated out of my love for her. The ghosts stare at me with pity in their eyes. Their lifeless eyes that offer me nothing but pity and gloom.

I reckon I wish to be someone I am not. I reckon I wish to be something more than I am right now. I reckon I wish to be another poet who has not undergone the ordeals I have. 

But I reckon, if not for my ordeals, inspiration would be something trivial that I would have discarded out of my mind with little to no thought.

And so we reach the end of my mindless rambling. End can be the only constant in life, considering the ephemeral nature of life itself. Should I weave poems braided with roses? Or should I conjure up the demon that governs the inside of my subconscious mind?

The ending entails two roads and I am rather forlorn. For just like Frost, I can only traverse one