Oscar Wilde
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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.
~
Masashi Kishimoto