Dusk

"We do not know what kind of people we truly are until the moment before our deaths. As death comes to embrace you, you will realize what you are. That's what death is, don't you think?"
Uchiha Itachi

~

He sits in the darkness of his room, staring at a nonexistent reflection in the luminous screen. In his mind, the imperceptible ceiling above him is a grey sky. The usually unnoticed lines on his fingers are heavily accentuated by the white light. He perceives them as a reminder of the worry lines digging through his forehead. He knows that he doesn't know how to stop pretending. And though the weight of his world is a giant nothingness playing a relentless game of hide and seek with his heart's shadows, he remains faithful to the light.

When you close your eyes, do you feel less pain, or more pain? I asked him the question with a voice that escaped me, a tone I could not recognize. Less, he calmly said. And while I was drowning in tiresome thoughts about how my inner hell is greater than the fake fires of reality, he dropped the metaphysical bomb.

We've all been dealt a shit hand, Kambris. And we're all bluffing, just bluffing.

Thinking back, I realize now that I should've replied with words we both know very well...

"Art..."

The light either shines through the darkness or remains a timelessly fading shadow. The shadows are revealed like shiny scars, ripped at the edges, overflowing with immaterially dense tears. The light remains. The shadows are revealed, revealed and never discovered. The light is there, still. The shadows unwaveringly tremble beneath his delusional fingertips. The light is heavy, inside-out. The shadows seek revenge against your anonymity. The light is always knocking at your door. The shadows know you framed them because you couldn't own up to your crimes. The light is peeking through the keyhole. The shadows will hold you forever when you fall. The light rushes slowly through that nameless gap above the floor – beneath the child's door. The shadows toy with my fractured soul while my eyes watch their hateful reflection unfold in the grey mirror. The light breaks. The mirror breaks too.

Let there be light, and many, many shadows. Blessed be the brave and blessed be the child who closed his eyes.

The light breaks – through.

It becomes – you.

Dawn.

~

"Art... is an explosion."
Masashi Kishimoto

Normal

“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

~

The pale morning awakens and the time is ticking. Time is ticking and the drops rain down on the naked asphalt like a relentless anxiety attack. The incessant fluid motion orchestrates a focused flood on the most vulnerable pores in his soft skin. Time is ticking. His hidden hardened shell is progressively broken down and its shattered pieces find a temporary home in his throat -- alongside the disfigured bits of vengeful teeth and an expired chocolate bar. Time is ticking. The sidewalk reeks of his smell. Time is ticking. The raindrops that felt like bullets now feel like bombs. Time is ticking and the scene is set to the loud music of innocent laughter, of criminal voices in his head. Time is ticking. The bullied child stands up and walks a few steps. Time is ticking. The deafening honk of the speeding bus doesn't hurt as much. Time is ticking. Who's laughing now? Time stops. And the asphalt is dressed in a heavenly red.

Internalized pain and repressed anger. The little girl loves to play hide and seek with her silent imaginary friends and awkward cartoon heroes. She likes to run and she's not sure time exists. Most of all, she enjoys painting her walls with small stickers, secretly thinking that if the magical glue sticks well, the expensive stickers could heal invisible wounds while her favorites ones would silence surrounding screams. Now, she's sitting alone, in the back of the school bus, making up musical tunes with her lips and listening to them at the same time. She doesn't know what the autistic spectrum is. Everything stops for a moment -- even the moment, even her music. She ignores the panic and loudly laughs behind closed eyes and a quiet smile to counter the negative ambiance. A while later, she blinks. Everything goes back to normal -- her normal. She looks up through the window and grins. And then she sends an honest kiss to her clear sky. She looks down at her asphalt and does the same thing. In her eyes, they both wear a chocolate violet blue.

That's not how you spell 'Faith', said Religion.

I was born in a place that smells like adult perfume, in a time that tastes like deception and corruption. You never knew me as a child. Or, perhaps, in a way, you did. I don't know what's going on, really. I just hope that we are unknowingly weaving our future stories beyond this overwhelmingly complex pattern of delusion. And I hope that one day, the kids will be alright.

For now, let there be light and many, many shadows. Blessed be the heart that glued faith to its walls. And blessed be the child who survived, the child who remembers. And blessed be the brave.

~

“Don't be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth.”
Rumi

Tickets

"I'll be yours.
When it rains it pours.
Stay thirsty like before.
Don't you know that the kids aren't al-, kids aren't alright?"
Fall Out Boy

~

Replace the echo that burns along your ribs. Take my hands and hold their applause for the sake of this loneliness the dancers call insanity. Forsake all that is broken. Forsake them and call the auction off because you can't lose what you don't have, because the world is rational and rotten, because the answering machine that's loudly whispering in your ear is you.

Breathe through the lines because you have nowhere to go, because all those burning bridges in your head have already mixed with the ashes of your cigarette. I can't tell you what happened because I don't really know. All I know is that I feel too much of this nothingness and I need to feel less of it. And this is the only way I can do that. It's okay. It's okay because when you're honest, everything happens the way it's supposed to.

Take this please. Take it off my chest. I don't deal well with stress. Take these tears that won't come out. Take these words that lie motionless upon my breath. Sing me to sleep under a starless ceiling and call it an ugly, quiet death. And take these feelings and flush the toilet so that the scent of my inner world becomes faithful to the drain.

Hold on. Rewind.

The ceiling breaks like toasted bread every morning and the falling pieces paint a garden of dust for the sandcastle in my head. I'm all alone here. Perhaps I always will be. Then again, maybe not. The echo burns ever so brightly for it knows these lines are not deaf. Together they send you a rose. So take a peak inside those petals: Red curtains. A wooden stage. Dim lights and you're just standing there. All the tickets were sold out but no one came. All you get is empty chairs, a mirror in your hand and a purple flower resting beside you -- Take a look.

Pause.

Let there be light and many, many shadows. Great surprises lie ahead and it is in these times that we must remember to always, always remember the titans. Blessed be the brave. And blessed be the inner child and all the love he thought had died.

~

"On with the show."
Queen