CDS'SARTSANDLITERATUREMAGAZINE CHAT 2023

by Mashari

love is only but a word.

a word that is used to identify the emotion, the feeling.

If I were to describe it, you would think that what I've been experiencing is actually a heart attack. but the feeling.. oh the feeling… it flows through my body like the blood in my veins.

the same blood that the butterflies sip and suck as if it is the nectar from the flowers that are my stomach, and the burning fire in my chest clouds my lungs in a pink smoke that tugs at my breath, and my heart beats and pounds so rapidly that i swear i can feel it move upwards towards my throat, making its way to my head to fill the space where my brain once was, and my legs threaten to give up, feeling like gelatin barely able to hold the rest of me.

I feel like I'm dying.

but my death is passionate and beautiful. to me

“love” is infatuation in its finest form. a deep obsession with only one thing and that thing only, one thing that unknowingly consumes the body and soul of me. a need that I would go to lengths for.

“love” is an illness from which I will never recover.

by Mashari

to recover from an illness is to completely be rid of it.

to learn, to grow and mature from it.

that is why i’m positive that i shall never recover from this one.

i’ve not even started any of those things.

the illness that once consumed me whole, body and soul, has left me for good, promising not to return.

i suppose that my former consumer is bad at keeping promises, because the illness still lingers after all this time.

it’s departure meant nothing.

the butterflies still sip and suck at my bloody nectar, pink smoke still clouds my chest, my heart still rests in my head, and my legs are still gelatinous.

I am still infatuated with something that is far from my reach.

the only thing that has changed, is that my death is no longer a passionate and beautiful one. It is a lonely and distressed one.

“Love” is an illness from which I will never recover.

Art

by Tay Williams

My violin heart plays when the birds sing creating the perfect melody

Along with the violin, paint fuels me

I sit while the moon shines just bright enough for my paintbrush to glide along my paper with a mind of its own

I've lost all connection to reality outside of my art

It circles and fills my mind every second of the day without art, let me perish.