Marcescence Over the Music Box

on remembering how to stop writing so much depressing shit
26/02/2020. total words: 439

i want to write something happy. a little bit of blooming before the rot withers it all away. before all i have is marcescence and silent determination. something soft, something gentle.
i wind up the music box that rests on the corner of my desk and i let it play, soft and chiming and reminding me of the smallest fragments of life. how the winter snow falls down like tears and the rain screams as it drowns us all out with the thunder. i want to write something happy, as i try to fill the decaying compost with something that can breathe it in and morph into something beautiful.
how tired i am, of seeing beauty only in the despair. in the quiet brokenness of the world. there was always something beautiful in the not-quite-defeat, in the prologue to the ending that says we're not quite there yet. something beautiful in the despair that says we're still alive, every ragged breath still a breath and every heartbeat one more nail in the coffin.
i set the music box down on my windowsill and i look out the window, and i see stars. so many stars. so many tiny, unfathomable gods standing witness to my every sin. to my every virtue.
we are all but stardust. we are all hope and despair and cruelty and kindness. we are all still breathing. we are all but stardust.
i want to write something in the quiet happiness, in the despair, in the half-crying laughter that says yeah, we made it. it cost too much but we made it. plant flowers over the silvery graves. blue and pink and white and all the rainbow in every teardrop.
there is a point when you're past despair. when you're so far out of your comfort zone that all there is anymore is calm. that this is the rain, and the storm is gone, and you're so far from your own emotions all you've found is stardust. the glittering teardrops made dust from all my memories.
this isn't a suicide song and it isn't a reminiscence of when it was better. this is the quiet finality of setting down the gun. swallowing the lump in your throat like the bullet it was.
i want to write something happy. i want to look around and see beauty in more than the blood still running crimson down my cheeks.
even the blood, i think, is made of stardust.
the music box winds down to a slow, breathing stop, and i tell myself, it's okay. one line at a time. one line, every moment. i will write something happy.