Flow

“Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.” 
Honoré de Balzac

~

The theta-gamma-solfeggio stream runs the waves beneath the dream. In truth, we are nothing. Silence the delusions. Silence the noise. Focus. There is only the absence of you. And this. Closed eyes, open. Open eyes, close. Inhale the invisible rose. Beneath the wave, a heart once dove. In truth, I am nothing. Beyond the wave, the pupil moves in wonder. Jump into the void. The music stops. The links are absent because you are not me. You are not nothing. But I'm trying to show you what it means to be meaningless. Let me. Are these your eyes? I want this to be different. Are you?

In here, there is no you. In here, there is no me. There is a breathless song of a fraudulent freedom fighter trying to break free. In here, I know that there, there is where I want to be. In here, I think that here is gone and there is no there, that there is nowhere. Now take a pause. Pause. I said pause. What do you see? A very exact and delicate nothingness.

The voices rumble in your head, melancholic and misread. What is the origin beneath the concept that drives you out of equanimity? How uniquely insignificant is your identity? Are you searching for yourself in the corners of your imagination or are you forging this painting with red crayons in your eyes? Where are you on the envy/self-righteousness spectrum? I see that you are split between transparency and paralysis. No pause. Is there a link between the meaningful and the meaningless? I see you unattached from the concepts you replace your experience with. Now tell me, which is the holiest of all, Love or Faith?

The waves are as quiet. This dream is on repeat. In truth, I am like that Nightwish song, deep silent complete, drowning quietly in a completely unsound world beneath bursting bubbles of beautiful music.

So take this, please. Wrinkled face. Unpolished eyes. Broken nose. Broken smile. Crooked neck. Asymmetric heart. Darkened lungs. Shattered blood. Take it. I don't want any of this. I can't even capture my own moment, my own feeling, the glass that bleeds underneath the skin of these words that still can't spell home. Please take it and leave. I wrote this because I couldn't breathe. It's what happens when you unplug a dysfunctional brain. Raw data of a soul redefining refined insanity under the moonlit resonance of artless synchronicity.

Call it flow. Name it transient hypofrontality. None of that matters. It is but the thought of death that makes you dance - though all this crap comes without a beat. The origin is not the key. What matters is what you see, what you see in the patterns, the ones that move in you as you float toward your purpose, or away from it. My dance has always been about autumn leaves, about holding them on the surface of my eyes before they hit the ground that is me.

Enough. Enough is more than enough to keep you grounded. And all this is nothing. Nothing is more than enough for me to stay true. And I'm not doing well because I know that alone is all I'm ever going to be. Alone in my mind, with a mind that writes meaningless words on an empty canvas and then falls from his daydreams into the fetal position to sleep inside the letters' curls. But these letters are not you. These letters are not you.

The waves are gone. This dream is on repeat.

This dream is on repeat. And you're not here with me. You're not here with me.

You're not here.

You're not.

You.

~

“If you've never eaten while crying you don't know what life tastes like.” 
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Perfume

“The dawn of beauty always comes after night.” 
Sorin Cerin

~

It's ninety minutes past midnight and you're not here. It's ninety minutes past midnight and I'm not here either.

I wonder how many minutes we still have together.

Over the course of history, sleepless nights have born witness to too many people, their headaches and heartaches, wishes and prayers, to songs that silenced the passage of time and a music in the silence that only the heart can hear. And yet on this sleepless night of my own, I swear by the graceful movement of your perfect eyes as they read these letters, that I just want to hear your voice.

I can think all I want about the non-existent distance between your stars and mine, about how our heartbeats travel the skies and meet midway to plan our next hug, and how our spirits visit each other's dreams and therein vow to forget all about it in the morning. And yet I know that all these thoughts are only echoes of the 'I miss you' that won't stop playing back in whatever's left of my soul.

I honestly don't know what to write anymore. And I don't know if I should do the right thing and leave or stay and see you every day. I know you told me to do the right thing but what's more important, the right thing or the right person?

You once told me that the only signs that matter are those we cannot see because it is those signs that keep us free and I didn't tell you how that simple thought changed my world. One day, I'll propose to you an equally beautiful idea that will change your world too.

But for now, tell me, love.

Tell me how you stole a heart I didn't know still existed. Tell me how you brought back words I thought were dead. Tell me how your perfume magically makes my lips paint a smile on your neck. Tell me this dream is good enough for you and that it won't be replaced with another, that you won't travel the world with someone else. Tell me that we will spend many sleepless nights together, nights where we won't know whether you are me or I, you, nights where I will look into your eyes and tell you the three words I promised myself never to say again.

For now, I tell you this, with the low, slow voice that you called boring:

I'm yours to keep.

~

“May night continue to fall upon the orchestra.” 
André Breton

Exception

“The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.” 

Kiran Desai

~

An old friend once told me that anyone, no matter how much you love them, can be replaced by someone else. I still remember how I laughed and told him that his statement is an insult to everything I believe in, and that his view of the world is very sad. I recently met up with this friend after a few years of distance and when I saw him he still had that same look of detachment in his eyes. He thankfully knew me well enough to skip the small talk and the fake bullshit, and a minute into our conversation, he dropped the bomb, with his careless gaze piercing through my supposedly heavily-armored mind:

"What happened? Your eyes look almost as faithless as mine."

My reaction was that I looked away, downward then to the right with that smile people wear when someone sums up their past with a catchphrase, the same one they use when a very close person unknowingly calls them by the word that strikes at all their inner scars. It was at that moment that I realized how right he was about almost everything and how I simply couldn't see it because of my childish ideals. I wanted to discuss the "anyone can be replaced" issue but whatever I was going to learn wasn't worth reminding him of the people he lost. Instead, I shifted the subject from faith in people to faith in God and then to the difference between faith and religion. 

I didn't tell him what happened because I didn't want to boost his faithlessness. 

But it's actually plain, simple and uncomplicated: We're all the same. We are the forgotten that forget, selfishly replacing the people who once lived in our hearts. We're all the same. And it happens in a blink. You spot a stranger and you close your eyes with the feeling that these strangers have become family, that they're an immortal part of you. And then, a few years later, you open your eyes to see that they're strangers once again. More importantly, you see that your wish upon a stranger is sadly a very common one. We're all the same and everyone keeps blinking at the strangers around them. We're all the same, used and replaced, using and replacing our own hearts, as if they meant nothing to us. We're all the same, a faithless dreamer whose memories were dreams that never happened, whose words of love were perhaps just a love for words, and whose hugs were terribly, terribly convincing lies. We're all the same, replacing old words and feelings with new ones. 

You recently told me that I was different from everyone else you've ever met and I told you that I see beautiful things around you. I should have added that I'm not different, that we're all the same. But instead I told you that I'll be leaving soon and you told me that you would give up the world for us to stay together. But I didn't say anything because you used a word that an old version of me used to share with a girl who was once just like you.

I don't know how you manage to remind me of how I used to be when I was a kid, how you talk and smile like that girl used to when she was a kid, how you don't mind that you sometimes remind me of the person you replaced and, most importantly, I don't know why I can't stop seeing beautiful things around you. I don't know why you feel like an exception.

So what happens next? And why are you here at such a terrible timing? What if we're all kids pretending to be grown-ups? And what if I told you that my once empty heart doesn't feel so empty anymore? What if I told you that I'll have two pictures of you in the apartment? Would you come visit, accidentally fall asleep, and wake up with your head on my shoulder in both picture and reality? Will your smile still be broken then?

What happens next?

~

“I’ll rearrange my love for you like I’ll rearrange the living room furniture. But first I have to replace everything.
” 

Jarod Kintz