Paradise Lost

Paradise Lost

I've lost everything.

All I ever had.

All I ever wanted.

All I ever wished for.

All I ever dreamed of.

Alas… Even hope

—now turned to despair—

has all but forsaken me.

For the ecstatic happiness I once knew…

…The paradisiacal, blissful Garden of Eden of my innocent, joyful, youthful years…

...where I cheerfully, mirthfully basked in the most sublime, extravagant pleasures...

And I euphorically, rhapsodically reveled in the most divine, heavenly raptures...

—as I've been diabolically, demoniacally sunk into this hellish, infernal pit of tears and sorrows—

...has given way to excruciating all-out pain and agonizing flat-out angst.

So all I'm left with now is nothing but this torturing, grueling, harrowing anguish.

–this senseless, endless, searing sadness–

that I've painfully, harmfully buried myself into.

From which I feel I will never reemerge.

From which I feel there's no way out.

This unfathomable, obscure, eternal abyss of infinite darkness...

–this dreadful, woeful, bottomless heartache–

that I've wretchedly, desperately descended into.

From which I feel I will never reascend.

From which I feel there's no break-out.

No salvation.

This pitch black, empty, hollow void of gut-wrenching, soul-shattering isolation and heart-breaking, nerve-wracking alienation I've been irreversibly, irreparably sucked into.

From which not even a glitter of light escapes.

From which not even a glimmer of hope remains.

This barren, desolate waste land of meaningless numbness and pleasureless nothingness I've been mercilessy, ruthlessly plunged into.

From which all my efforts to recapture if only so tiny a trifle as a fleeting ray of sunlight are all in vain.

From which all my trials to climb back to the ground to take in if only something as little as a droplet of brisk, crisp morning air are all but idle.

This subterranean, claustrophobic, minuscule, cramped prison cell I've been unforgivingly, unmercifully caged into.

From which all my struggles to break free to soak in if only something as fickle as a fugitive glimpse of clear, bright light of day are all but futile. 

From which no consolation avails me against this coldest, darkest, winter night.

No comfort.

No solace.

No redemption.

No saving grace.

No nothing.

Except for the bittersweet memory of it all.

The memory of my idyll.

Of my teenage summer of love.

My Paradise Lost.