Fight

"Empty spaces - what are we living for?"
Queen

~

What can you say? What can't you say?

I can say that false ideas can be the right and necessary steps to reach correct conclusions. I can say that no one likes a broken toy that keeps repeating the same half-sentence no matter how hard you push its button. I can say that I don't know whether I'm more afraid of what I want or of what I might find out. I can say that it all falls back into the distance between love and fear though I know that there's a lot more to it - to this. I can say that I hide my face behind metaphors because I can't stand the sight of the truth. I can say that my imagination fixes the brokenness of this world though it feels like it's other way around. I can say whatever I want to say because freedom shapes both biology and the bed-covers that hide it. I can say whatever I want to say and you can interpret things in whichever way pleases you and I can say that this phenomenon indirectly, and in some unnamed half-lit perspective, accounts for both heaven and hell. I can say things in my head in a combination of talk-back and play-back and broken-back modes just to exhale the recycled shit I have bottled up. I can say whatever you want to hear but I'd have to truly know who you are and I don't because no one really knows anyone and no one knows what's really going on. I can say that I know myself but I'd simply be lying to someone I don't know. I can say anything but it will always be closer to nothing than to some thing. And I can say that the show must go on, no matter what.

I can't say that I didn't want to mix the 'cans' and the 'can'ts'. I can't say that this isn't compensation for my lack of organization. I can't say what love is. I can't say that this isn't getting boring. I can't say that the word 'fraud' doesn't always come to mind. I can't say that coincidences exist. I can't say that I'm honestly doing well. I can't say why I'm doing this can/can't thing even though it's not making me feel well. I can't say what I really want to say but that's fine because I like it when the words come out spontaneously - and they are. I can't say that I don't admire how everything, even hardship, is so well-designed. I can't say what self-love is because I don't yet fully know how the process works. I can't say how I really feel for multiple reasons. I can't say what these reasons are. I can't say that I like order more than chaos. I can't say that I'm not disappointed by the lack of coherence here. I can't say that I can't say things anymore. And I can't see it, and I'm not sure I want to.

But why? Why do different questions always lead back to answers that sound and smell the same and yet taste like different kinds of pain? Why do words initially appear so unique and then commonly feel like torn papery skin that smells of old carpets? Why does knowledge ache more to be forgotten than to be known? Why do I crave forgottenness rather than oblivion? And why am I asking all these questions anyway?

This is empty and sad. And I claim to be currently neutral and devoid of feeling. So either this isn't a faithful reflection or, maybe, I'm just being as self-deceiving as ever. This is boring and disappointing. And on a scale of one infinite void to dull refurbished introspection, this is paradoxically both and neither and utter nothingness.

When the words fail, one has to wonder what is left floating in the shipwreck. When the words fail, the welcome mat on the door of your imagination spells embarrassment with a single 'r' to tell you how unwelcome you are - here. And here is all you have. And here is nowhere suspended in brokenhearted ill-shaped half-breaths spat-out into vomit-inspiring stains on the portrait of someone that looks like someone you thought was you. So go on and write and read this terrible attempt at not being terrible at a life you wake up everyday to deserve. And live on though you can't re-write what you repeatedly failed to read in that smoke of these burnt-out candles of those dark wishes you whispered to the endlessly suffocating night you couldn't save. And now exhale incomprehensible light into this sin-eating darkness, while the night's neck-snap still echoes in your trembling hands. When the words fail, as you can't see, this happens and you don't.

What do you want to say?

I want to say that I can't take it anymore.
I can't take it anymore.
There, I said it.

Is that your final answer?

No. The show must go on, no matter what.

~

"Outside the dawn is breaking."
Queen

Shadow

"Et entendre ton rire comme on entend la mer 
S'arrêter, repartir en arrière."
Renaud

~

She was a galaxy and I wanted to cross all the light-years stretched within her eyes.

But I'm tired. I'm tired and this new kind of pain isn't one I can tune out into the numbness of my veins. I'm tired and the breakdown is on the verge of tearing up my papery soul.

I can't maintain composure and I can't maintain my hateful self-criticism. I can't help seeing the flaws and I can't dodge them anymore.

And no matter how far inviolable principles go, the fraudulent eye is there to put up a smokescreen masquerading as the immaculate horizon.

This is not me. It's just how my broken parts behave. This is the broken road of growth mazing under the clouded sky of insanity. This is not me. It's just an ugly mask consuming my skin.

Anger. Rage. Anger.

Every day, I see strangers walking on the street, with virtual copies of themselves fighting off their inner and outer demons. And as they all fail to keep a straight face behind the dance of light and shadow, I keep wondering why we all keep pretending. And I wonder if my buried struggles ever appeared as a sword-fight in someone's imagination.

What are we doing here? Does anyone really know when or where or why or who they are? And if you're on the quest of becoming who you truly are beyond all those kinds of despair, then how do you know you're on the right path? How do you know you're not just pretending not to be pretending, like everyone else?

This is the point that stretches into a dimension. You either see it or you don't. We're all acting as if this is real, as if we are for real. When the truth is that what truly matters is kept hidden behind the stage, while we falsely lose and regain despair as quickly as the spectators' fake smiles fade. Maybe it's always going to be this way, human beings beating their egos against the wall of despair.

I know that some things matter more than life. And, yes, there are moments that outweigh the universe. But I don't want to talk about any of that.

People change. People help other people change. But no human being can fix another.  Everyone's broken; some are broken beautifully, others not so much. Yet, breathing aside, people lie to themselves far more often than they do anything else. People are cruel. And they're ruining everything. People are selfish. And the first thing they always ruin is themselves.

I wonder if my dreams and my words are part of the script I'm pretending not to read. And I wonder if anyone in the audience ever truly saw the mirror-like property of the eyes behind the mask. I wonder if I will always be acting alone on this stupid stage of delusion. And I wonder if I will ever stop wondering and just walk out of here.

There is a thick line between honesty and self-deception. Where are you?

There is a thin line between identity and purpose. Where do you want to be?

There are no more lines. All you can do is read between the lies.

Action.

~

“Act well your part; there all the honour lies.” 
Alexander Pope

Snow

“I feel too much. That's what's going on.' 'Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?' 'My insides don't match up with my outsides.' 'Do anyone's insides and outsides match up?' 'I don't know. I'm only me.' 'Maybe that's what a person's personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.' 'But it's worse for me.' 'I wonder if everyone thinks it's worse for him.' 'Probably. But it really is worse for me.” 
Jonathan Safran Foer

~

The walls were deep dark purple. The door was grey on the inside and it was open. The room was empty. The wooden floor carried the scent of burnt-out stars and I was sitting there by the corner. There were no windows. The ceiling was made of reflective ice and it became blurry whenever I pictured the faces of the people I loved. It was all fiction. It was safe fiction, and so was I.

He could enumerate his complexes in non-alphabetical order and compare the sum of the numerical values, corresponding to each of the starting letters, to the difference in salinity between the left eyelashes and the right ones. He could write this whole damn spectacle in an equation and solve it with his eyes closed but he could never apply the result. He could always tell the difference between arrogance and despair, lurking in the spaces between the lines, trembling in the tells beneath the lies, and sending him back to bed, where all dreams lie broken, dead, unread.

I can't tell you where it all went wrong even I wanted to. I can write it down in patterns and maps across the infinite realm of metaphors. I can't remember when exactly it all broke down and I'm not even sure I want to. I can breathe out smoke and become skin but it seems that I was built to do it the other way around. I can't say that I can do whatever I set my mind to - not anymore. I can tell you how you feel. You can break these chains whenever you want to. You can break them; and timing is key.

But the door is open, remember? How would it feel to be open door to an empty room?

Maybe the truth - the attainable one - lies in the distance between fiction and reality, time and timing, freedom and necessity, hope and despair, between the finite and the infinite, the eternal and the temporal, the sickness and the remedy, and, maybe, between the left eye that reads the lies and the right one that sees through them. And maybe the sum of all these distances will one day become you.

I don't like labels but I think all human beings are delusional. And the grandest delusion of them all is when we make the slightest smile of all, the smile that thinks it understands what it just read, what it just said, though it neither sees beyond the wine nor tastes the heartbroken bread.

The point is that, that there is this veil. The point is right there, right behind the veil. That's why everything you see, everything you see is always asking you the same question, here and here and there: What do you see? What do you see? What do you see?

[...]

Once, there were dreams and then, there were none. Twice and thrice, I faked and faded,

Maybe it's time I take my best shot.

The walls are still the same, though a lot of people have tagged their names and left. The door is maroon-black on the outside and it's closed shut. But it's still fiction out here. And I can't wait till you see the invisible paint I have on my face.

Maybe the truth is in the difference between these colors we exchange and all those we keep to ourselves.

I'm sorry I ran out of colors.

~

“Think of what starlight 
And lamplight would lack 
Diamonds and fireflies 
If they couldn’t lean against Black...” 
Mary O'Neill