Enigma

“Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.”
W.B. Yeats

~

Illusions.

The smoke mixes well with the darkness. And the white light comes off the screen to crash onto the stranger's hands. Whose hands are these? The keystrokes brighten up when I push them. I'm not alone. I don't like it when I'm not alone. I wish I could die. I don't mean that in a completely suicidal way. Perhaps, it's only part of me that hopes for death. Is there a you in you that wants to die too?

Enter the void.

Thankfully, I can turn down the emotion-volume to a minimum—and you can read what remains, these letter-shaped stains that leak through my fingers. I'm alone now. All that is incontrovertibly true is saved in this bubble. Thus, I am not allowed in. But, at least, I can read off these spherical layers and I can transliterate tribulation. All I have ever known is here. My castles of repressed tears. My frozen rivers of rage. My beautiful sleepless nights and the starry sky that drowns them. All my old selves are here, buried alive beneath the ashes of my cigarettes. And there's him too, that motionless shadow which glows darker than all this madness, my madness. Stand here. Right there. Let your feet float atop silky ember. Yes, right there. This is where I last saw him, the shadow's owner I mean. He was just a little kid, a little kid who really loves paper-planes. And this used to be his playground. He liked to run, all the time. And... and this is where he stopped. He just stopped and looked at me. "What have you done?" he said. And that was it. He vanished. I never got the chance to explain.

Let there be light, and many, many shadows.

Take your best shot. Take your best shot. Take a shot of self-destruction with an aftertaste of fake redemption. I numb the hurt with self-deception and you, and you can turn up the volume because I've already fallen asleep. Take your best shot because your wounds are crippling your body language. Take your best shot because every moment is eternal abandonment. Take your best shot because you only have two bullets and the last bullet is you.

Blessed be the brave, and blessed be the knight of faith.

So comprehend apprehension for this heart-drum is forever paired with pain. Blink away this wretched ink and blink away the rain. Hold on to the key of fiction and redefine insane. Then turn the pages, turn the pages, turn the pages and decorate the veil. And burn off the reflection as you fade away. The purple heart implodes. The breathless voice erodes. All I have ever known is here. So how dare you ask me to—

Wait.

What was that? It was a dashing flash, a silent blur. Did you see it?

Look. No. No, not like that. I mean close your eyes.

It's a paper-plane.

Well open it!

7-SYS-1

~

“It's the children the world almost breaks who grow up to save it.” 

Frank Warren

Cracks

“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” 
Oscar Wilde

~

This air is bruised. It's cut. And still, it looks down on my broken heartbeats as they struggle to fall off my shirt. What if the sky isn't really torn? What if there's something wrong with my eyes? I know that you know that I'm not okay. But maybe, I'm okay with not being okay.

It was five to twelve and the sun was shining down on the playground. I stood there watching my schoolmates walking, running, talking, hiding, seeking, laughing. And I just stood there, slowly eating my homemade cheese sandwich. I was 7 years old. And now, 18 years later, it still feels the same way. You can't both capture the moment and be in it. Maybe I just never wanted to be found. Maybe, I really knew how to hide in plain sight. Or maybe, I just didn't want anyone to notice how slow I ran.

These walls are cracked. The fan sends a breeze of temperate air every now and then. My skin is dry. The lights are dim. My head slightly hurts. It's not that easy to breathe in here. It's probably better if I move to the balcony. People don't get it, you know? They barely ever look at the sky. Consider mine right now, for example. What do you see? Grey clouds and a light night blue sky. About 29 stars and 12 sleeping buildings with a few lit rooms. I wonder what they're doing. I wonder if someone else is looking at these grey clouds, whether they too are distraught by the idea of how the color grey always dominates the scene. I guess I'm people too. That means I don't get it either. Maybe, some walls never crack.

Pause the drama. Pause the loneliness.

Some people spend their lives trying to become a one-man-band. They don't see it. They can't see it. They need to hear it. They need to feel the pattern. When multiple instruments embrace in the same melody and all the musical elements become a single beating thread, the human-cosmic vibration climactically tears down your walls and unconsciously becomes you.

It's nine to six and the sun hasn't come up yet. The wind of the worlds sends itself into my bloodstream and breath every now and now. And now I am more than my dry skin. The shadows are dim and my head is in the grey clouds. It's not that easy to breathe through unlucky cigarette smoke. It's probably better if I tell you where I'm going with this.

No matter how often you lie to yourself and pretend that you are not you, no matter how fast you think you can run or how far you think you've gone, no matter how many masks decorate your affliction, and no matter how hard you try to avoid the pain, you know, deep down. You know.

Your walls are cracking.

~

“We were alone and starved for love. Kids that lived in a world full of hate.” 
Masashi Kishimoto

Implosion

"To run is not necessarily to arrive. "
Swahili proverb

~

The wand was broken. So was the dream.

I saw you yesterday, in my sleep. And I was wondering if you saw me too. The sky was both dark and grey. And the ocean was moonlit clay. And you just stood there, with your back leaning against a poster of your forest. And for some of the most part, I was there, breaking in and out of the violet mist.

Whispers.

Stop playing with the wooden parts of your heart for they are forever carved with regret. This feast you never cease to enjoy is not the fruit of creation. It is but your own flesh. And this mirror is bleeding at the edge of your lips.

And those walls you break, they leave their shards in your throat. And all these stars you cannot move, they crumble to cosmic dust at the tip of your pen. The word is lost. The world is lost. And the only prize is loneliness. This broken bread is soaked in red. But you’ve lost all your color.

Now repress the rage. I said repress the rage. Please. Sometimes you have to skip a line so it doesn’t bend your rib cage. And sometimes you have to consider every other perspective just so you could forget your own. This twisted plot will rot away. And all my words will fade. I told you not to fall asleep. I told you not to dream. I told you not to believe in magic. But off you leapt. And off you fell. And every breath was a number. And little did you know that you were dialing death.

Perhaps light is to physical objects what emotion is to ideas. And you probably have no idea what you’re sure about. You might actually not be sure about anything. In any case, the instrument is infinitely sinful. And though this music you compose is a chess game of delusion, I’ll tell you the truth in the end.

I don’t know which part of you is standing at which gate. And I don’t know how your two main principles mate at the top of the pyramid. I don’t know how the soul carries the mind’s flight. And I don’t know how these auburn shrubs in my head will turn yellow. But I know that I can’t face the dark without you—that without you I am but fictional ash, intangibly dry. So come, Love.
Come.
Let us kill the faceless enemy.

Checkmate, purple implosion.

~

"If you are filled with pride, you will have no room for wisdom."
African proverb