Weary Dead Iris

By Cyril Joseph

We rebel for reasons unknown. We act out against the ones who weren’t responsible. We torture the ones we love, because if not them, then whom? Here we are, trying to grasp at the moments that passed us by, trying to recapture the magic that we left behind. Knowing all too well that this almost reachable pedestal slipped right through our fingers, while we tried to close our fist. Excuses we can make a thousand, but reasons barely a few. Uncertainty overwhelming the choices that we made, dictating the very purpose of the life we have left. When rationality gets in the way of your dreams, you are left wondering of all that was and all that could be. The sad truth is that this

desensitizes you to the life you are currently living. When you can’t escape the sorrow, or outrun the happiness and comfort that comes along with it, you realize that in some ways you’re a debauched moralist who is stuck in between everything that is good and the bad about the world.

So be deliriously happy or die trying, because when everything has proven to be futile, all of the good and all of the bad, conspire as one, merging into the only reality we can conceive of. Be it right or wrong, be it white or black, be it the difference between what makes the world great or equally terrible.

Yet here we are staring at the skies painted as blue as your eyes were, hoping the storm would not grey it out, the way I stole the blue from your now weary dead iris. Here we are as the day presents itself, as lively as you once were, hoping that my rage doesn’t kill the soul of whatever was left in you. For these gratified moments were stolen away from you, either by me or by existence itself,

but at this point, I can barely tell. This is no mere narrative or rant, but a selfish attempt at relieving my guilt for all the ways that I have messed you up.

By Cyril Joseph