Dear Old Friend

People come and go. People live and die and love and survive. There’s always yearning for something more. I feel that I can never be complete. The darkness that descends by surprise is never far. The love that keeps me sane is completely separate from reality. But there’s this void, this whole, this physical yet purely psychological phenomenon that not only haunts me but runs twice as fast as me. I have no chance. I have no freedom but the freedom of captivity. The emptiness is never filled simply covered. People who are tired leave. They leave the race and find a resting place far far away.
The angels, the tiny little angels grow weary of the task of guiding humanity in a direction desirable to the gods above. The god of void is looking at us every minute, wanting to see change. Wanting to rid himself of the responsibility of safekeeping the void. There’s a picture on his bedroom wall.
I want to cry for myself. I want to see innocent angels invade my life and fly in circles around my room. I want to see dear old friends come to life. I want to hear the sweet music of angels made of wood, made of stone, drawn on windows secretly once more. If the world was to break down and leave us all stranded, there will surely be at least one kind soul to take us by the hand and guide us through the mess. The white angels will lift their heads and look into our eyes as they whisk us far away from this lonely life. He flies like a bird, he sees nothing that can stop his heart from screaming out love. His ropes are gracefully held by tiny hands of golden haired angels. There is no worry in his eyes, there is no sign of the struggle he always was forced to deny.
How will eyes of laughter and faces of smiles appear again? How can we see the magic that’s invisible? He imagines a world where there is no pain and no void to fill. The curtains get pulled aside. People get to choose their lives and dear old friends answer all the questions whilst staying behind. The hearts stay young and freeze on a moment so joyous to all. There are no signs of fear. There’s nothing there that reminds any of them of the void. The angels with their purple dresses and their golden flutes blow the uncertainties away.
I may never see them again. I may never feel the love, the joy, the sadness of a dear old friend. But hold my hand and tell me that we will smile. But take my pain in your tiny little hands: my dear old friend, say the words that you’ve begged for me to have.

How will we smile, ever again? I’m asking you sincerely, my dear old friend.