Fyodor Dostoyevsky
~
A small rock falls off the edge of suffocation. You can call it death. You can call it desperation. But that's not the point.
A blue-feathered bird is standing on your left shoulder. You can call her Sky. You can call her Blue. But that's not the point either. The point is beyond the void, beyond imagination.
A dying star explodes in your brain. It forms a virtual glass dagger, a cold lake between your right eye and ear. She used to call you her universe. Now she's just the radioactive stardust in your head.
A little girl with heaven painted on her face is sitting on her old red bicycle. She's in her own world, where no one else is welcome. She's so unimpressed with the grown-ups that keep failing at stroking her cheeks. And it's as if she can see them for what they truly are. Maybe that's why she can't bring herself to smile - I honestly just wanted to hear your voice. And maybe I wanted to know your name, and how you pronounce it. I wish I'd taken a picture of you, a picture of heaven. Okay, I can call you Heaven.
A subtle feeling of brokenness hovers around your lungs. And outside this shell it would look like a bruised emptiness, a leather jacket that would look good on anyone and anything. Whether it's covering the nonexistent shoulders of the tombstone of someone you lost, caressing the wooden arms of an empty chair, or embracing the naked skin of the human being who broke your heart, it would still look good.
A fragile flower breaks the sea. And the firmament becomes a morning glory of violet dreams, bedcovers for the delusional ghost of a peaceful childhood that once fell asleep in the arms of a long summer day at the beach - and it never woke up.
A gentle breath now chokes on time. And a pathetic sigh mocks the transparent liquid in your eyes. The pain is real. The pain is real. No, you're not listening. The pain is real. And I, I hide in the shadow of the scars, metaphors of a relentless mind, bloodied chords and a broken rhyme.
The raging dreamer takes off, off the edge of aspiration. You can call it life. You can call it liberation. But that's not the point.
The point is right here.
~
"Father in heaven, when the thought of thee awakens in our soul, let it not waken as an agitated bird which flutters confusedly about, but as a child waking from sleep with a celestial smile."
Søren Kierkegaard