Mono no aware
I am breathless
Unborn being, ancient tune
Forced into a field of staring eyes
A barred dome of made-believe concepts
Surely existence couldn’t be this fragile? Why give us a gift of this divinity just to make it fleeting, perishable, like the hopes of yesterday?
Surely this is all a dream.
But my hands bleed so red and clear, and my stomach aches from thoughts. I do not know whether to listen to the world or to hear myself. I can’t see trough this layers of mold. My body is decomposing in front of me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Why do I have to carry this? My veins break and my skin melts like ice cream on a hot summer day. The only thing that comforts my fear of death is the thought of death. Why?
Mono no aware (n.) (phr.) lit: “the pathos of things”; the gentle wistfulness at the transience of things, the awareness of the sadness of existence