The Bleag of Empty

It just had a titley thing to it. Like a ballad of some sort. But now really to explain why the dark thoughts. Because despite the number of comments (it's etiquette, people; to let the author know you have been here) I'm not that dark a person. This is a vent. Or as someone put it better; I put words to what I feel. Too many perhaps, but they are just words at the end. And being employed as a wordsmith helps. You become better at using words, without realising their power or import.

And though being blue is in part congenital and part what I've made myself and a whole lot because I suffer from such lack of purpose, it is still a phase that passes. The reason I haven't put a post up for so long was that. I wasn't blue. I wasn't particularly thrilled with the world, quite the opposite, but certainly not blue.

And this is a bleag. It must remain dark. It's not a blag, which would have gags, stupid jokes, and self-deprecatory humour. All of which I'm capable of. But there is much more romance to, more feeling to and a great degree more expression in pain. Of the self inflicted/created type.

So what is the bleag of empty?

It's a rant. It's the dirty dark lane where the aborted foetuses of fantasies lie.
It's a vent. It's a release to the green noxious gases that would otherwise not leave space in the head for anything else.
It's the exploration of the celebration of a feeling, so overpowering, it makes love pale.
It makes art young again. It makes life spectacular and yet utterly unreal. Undoable. Unbending to one's wishes.
It's the slow spelling out of 'could've been', 'if only', 'yes-but'.
It's my feeling of emptiness when the noise in my head clears. When the one thought that remains feels so lonely, it bursts into a soliloquy.
It's depression showing off.
It's blue breaking out of its monochrome.
It's an exercise in combining an empty right with a much-packed left.
It's just words in the end.