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

Smoke

"What I've felt, what I've known

Turn the pages, turn the stone
Behind the door, should I open it for you?"
Metallica 

~

It is a dark and deeply beautiful view. And I want you to be here with me. And I tell myself now that I want you here because I want all the stars hiding behind empty clouds above me get the chance to meet that one star that shot through my heart. But I know that I just want you here because I love you. And I just said those three words out loud four times in a row and I don't know exactly why.

Yet now I tell myself that words are but empty promises, hopeful fireflies that die when their ink catches fire, when the plot reveals that death is the hidden title of everything they wrote in the wind at night. And I suspect that this wind travels through me because I am not here, and that even if I were, the night would still magically lose its memory at dawn, just like it did yesterday.

So what happens to these forgotten moments of wonder where you only exist in my imagination? Do they die with me just like I'm dying in them, with the sound of your laugh in this fictional background? Perhaps the fireflies I made up will align in this starless sky to spell out your name in light, to make me smile right before the curtain closes and death applauds with the starry letters falling gently onto my empty bed of heartbeats. And, then, perhaps, you'd wake me up in the glorious morning night-people dream about when they're dead and that's when I'd tell you that you are the light and deeply beautiful view that erased the night in my heart.

[...]

It's almost morning now, and the silently still buildings are staring back at me with a giant grey cloud fading into pieces above them. And the motionless scene reeks so badly of death that I almost forget that there are hundreds of lives having dreams as vivid as the smoke in my breath and as dead as the breath in my smoke.

Yet, interestingly, just like smoke, the truth has three faces. And to every face, there are two scales. When you face your heart, the pendulum swings between Faith and Fear. When you face your self, the clock either ticks for Goodness or for Power. And when you face your soul at midnight, you'll either see that Love is a timeless mirror, or you'll be lost in the drama of self-deception, divided in images of broken silhouettes in the shards of glass you pretend to inhale so you can fall out of sleep from this grand delusion.

[...]

So enter the world of an enigma that was broken when it was born. Enter the world of lies, a world that tricks its own existence into death. Enter a world that can no longer tell the difference between reality and fiction. Enter a world of make-believe purple rain falling onto yellow autumn leaves to write a fairy-tale even though the author is colorblind. Enter a world where thoughts become footsteps that leave no trace on this desert sand, while all the feelings in the world are colorlessly buried alive underneath this damned map of empty patterns.

[...]

Just like this smoke, I have one face. Just like this smoke, I was once the purple fire that caught the curtain by surprise. And just like this smoke, I, now, into the morning wind disappear.

So wake up and read the wind and perhaps you'll comprehend how beautiful it feels to burn into love with the sound of your laugh in the background.

I know the night won't remember any of this.

But maybe you will.

I love you. It's only one whisper this time. And I know you just heard it.

~

"I take this key
And I bury it in you

Because you're unforgiven too."

Metallica

Words

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” 
Rudyard Kipling

~

The words can't flow because they're drowning.

And so I hide the cracks in my soul with these whispers of the metaphoric sand that carries your scent.

And they can't flow because people made of sand once lost all their words to the sea. And yet each time you place your hand on my skin, I find my dusty soul floating across the waters, like fireworks melting into constellations because of that slight magical shiver at the edge of your fingers.

And now my eyes are this quill of chaos with waves of heartbeats as their ink. And the words still can't flow because I'm drowning on the surface of this heavenly universe you enclose with a blink, because I fall deeper and deeper every time we lock eyes and I can't look away.

So here, at sunrise, are daydreams, and you, daydreams of you. And there, at the edge of nightfall, I am the night that's falling in love with you.

And thus, the quill, it spirals down the ocean, spelling your name in breathless bubbles, wondering if this is all a hopeless dream. Yet, what are dreams when my soul is building an underwater sandcastle with yours? And what are hopes when I have your hand in mine?

[...]

We build and break and fall, then tell stories to ourselves about the mysterious beauty of it all. But I know that these words are but a distorted memory engraved in the record of skipped beats and words unsaid, swallowed breaths and sighs unread. But next come the words that kill, beyond my darkest corner, in that old pain within me moving still. Next come the words that kill, temporarily scattered in disfigured letters floating atop the sea of untold tragedies I bury in my mind. Next come the words that kill, and I can't arrange those letters and read what they have to say because I know that they'll tell me that my heart is dead. They'll tell me that my heart was nice but now it's dead and that no metaphor in the world can't bring it back.

So what are you doing?
What are you doing and why are you walking next to the sea I never told anyone about?
What are you doing and why are you here?

[...]

In this world, you're either broken, dead or insane. And deep inside, no matter which one - or two - you are, there are words that could change you, words that could tear you apart and words that could bring you back anew. And they usually don't flow because they pity your existence and they don't want to flood it into void. Mine couldn't flow because I hid them in the nonexistent layer between your heart and my empty chest when we first hugged.

But I guess your heart rearranged the letters for me.

So next come the words that kill, faintly beating still,

Some things are meant to be.

~

“We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.” 

Neil Gaiman

Music

"Inside these pages you just hold me."

Ed Sheeran

~

My dreams are burning in the sky. A part of me calls them stars, the other, dust. And I don't know whether my soul is made of cosmic dust of a star that died, or of one that is not yet born. And while confusion lays its empty weight upon my numb and wasted mind, I secretly pray for cold rain to protect my dreams from the fire. 

My senses fail and I feel no pain. The 'I' I gaze upon inside escapes me and I'm too slow and exhausted to try and catch up with it. My heart keeps failing to materialize. But why?

There must be some explanation for this non-feeling phenomenon. And there must be something more here according to my calculations. Or perhaps I've made some miscalculation. But where?

What is my heart waiting for to show up?

I keep telling myself that I've understood every step in this ancient journey of mine, but have I really? Am I lying to myself like they all do? Aren't we all the same at the end of the day?

Who the hell are you? 

Scratch that and rephrase.

What the hell have you become?

[...]

What are words when you no longer know who you are? The symphony that has been playing in my mind all my life is gone. But where to? 

The chairs of the artist and the composer have disappeared. Oblivion. There is no proper wording to verbalize the situation. Thoughts fade. That is all. Thoughts fade. And like a dying autumn leaf that bears within its patterns the sleepless marks of every season, I fade too. Even the state of spontaneous expression fails to find the crooked path into my soul. Perhaps, the latter has gone out of its way to find another. Or perhaps, it's busy playing hide and seek with a kindred mate. All I have here is a small number of songs that recurrently shape my lips and state of mind. And since all I had has become a forgotten number of ancient memories, I intend on filling that space with whatever comes next. Whatever comes next I hope I earn it. I hope I deserve it.

Meanwhile, blessed be the noble knights of honor that have reflected light upon my broken road.

And blessed be the brave.

[...]

The warm wind hums a long lost melody that loosens life's tight grasp on the heart. And yet the music does not go in. It just takes a numb machine out of its cage for a dance.

And they dance to every sound because they know that everything is music.

It's in the slightly audible whistle in the movement of smoke as it parts ways with my breath to seek a more inspiring partner. It's in the sharp knife in bloodied fingers as it slowly moves against the violin in all my flashbacks until all the strings are torn and I fall asleep. It's the same music that made the metro stop and listen to how a little girl and a very old man were exchanging genuine smiles that transcend ethnicity. It's in the way your nose and my heart wrinkle at the sound of your laugh. And it plays in my blood whenever I imagine all the memories we're never gonna make together. In sad and happy moments alike, the music is there. And it's beautiful.

I wish I could describe the dance but I can't. 

So what do you feel? Is the music really there or am I imagining things? Don't answer that.

Answer this.

Is there music when you close your eyes?

~

"I just wanted you to know."

My Chemical Romance