Maze by Kholoud Hussain


noun: maze; plural noun: mazes

  1. a network of paths and hedges designed as a puzzle through which one has to find a way.

An enigma, a puzzle, a mystery, a riddle, a conundrum, and a paradox. All entwined and all entangled in a thread so familiar to most of us we barley even recognize it anymore. A thread of silk and thorns of prickles of unfortunate events and hysterical quarrels, found embedded in the heart of our volcanos, with lavas erupting the bottled up sentiments. 

A prominent mind illuminated by the wide, fabricated galaxies. One upon another, colliding in the momentum of the fall, bursting into flames of fantasies and dwelled upon dreams. A cluster of shadows crippling in the darkest pits of the mind, obscuring the tumbling rubicund cherry blossoms with the bloodshot spots of the aftereffect of a philosophical death. Mere ideas that ablaze the mind and the soul, crafting disruptive thoughts with its alienated nature. A muddle of jumbled paths and discrete solutions, so parallel yet so altered, causing nothing but utter confusion and perplexed notions.

No demon nor angel can ever dissever the soul from its core; a dense, dark, and vacant void. Hope long deferred by circumstances no amount of art nor words can ever describe. They say that not all those who wander are lost, yet it seems that all those lost wandered. For when one stumbles upon the core of it all, they find themselves lost between the overlapping interlopers, with their so called inner demons roaming around the radiant macrocosm. A distorted world, painted only with foreign whims and slanted desires. Amidst the clusters of deranged affections, lies the need to get lost. A fantasy in which getting lost in the only way out. Where vanishing is the way to exist. Where hunting the inner darkness is a far greater deal than hunting the lurking lunatics roaming around.

Many talk about shattered hopes and lost wishes, but little speak of the paths into which they carved their steps on. Little speak of the meager choices that lead to fatal consequences; the penalties of being mystified. Either too many choices or the lack of any. Both leading them to summoning the demons from the cages in their ribs and letting go of the angels in their hearts. Descending into the underworld with an escalator marked by names of those who lost their souls. And oh lord the amount of names rooted on these moving walls. Letters and alphabets that can fill the circumference of the galaxy, assuming such thing even existed.

A balance of the imbalance of what we must do and what we want to do creates the cosmic equation that breathes air into our lungs. Yearning for something we no longer can acquire creates yet another path in which the spirit molds into two pieces of a shattered whole. And in the end, we are still lost in the infinite loops and turns, each leading us into a deeper hell in our mind maze.

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