Disconnect

"When the paper's crumpled up it can't be perfect again."
Linkin Park

~

Yeah but, she co-wrote my life with the words she never said.

There was once a young kid who thought he could do anything. One day, he read somewhere about a common phenomenon among teenagers called the Invincibility Complex. From that day onward, he understood that 'eventually they all fall' and that no one is invulnerable.

"What if I fell to the floor..."

There was once a young kid who dedicated all his observational skills to discover the strengths and weaknesses of everyone around him. One day, someone told him that he was projecting. From that day onward, he started including himself in his analysis.

"Couldn't take this anymore..."

There was once a young kid who got hooked on self-destructive behavior. One day, he came across the concept of self-love but he could not comprehend it. From that day onward, at every given opportunity, he told people that they should not reduce themselves or others to the mistakes they make.

"What would you do..."

And she breathed out love when my blood was mere fire, when I only saw my bruises in the blue sky.

When the definitions are wrong, all our stories, whether written or read, neither, or both, will be flawed and misunderstood. The worst stories are those that have missing links, where the reader can only focus on how the events are unrelated, how it's all incoherent nonsense. The best stories are where the reader feels part of the story, where the characters can somehow touch him, and thus, change him.

This is not a good story. It's just me looking for one in the emptiness. There are no characters here. There are only voices that my mind is trying to silence.

The origin, you see, is a sad conversation on an old and broken phone. The process, so far, involves an inconsistent run over fictional obstacles. And the purpose is -

And she stood behind her silent voice, staring at the sea, all three conspiring to heal my broken skyline, to mend the horizon that bends behind my eyes.

This story isn't designed to make me feel anything. It's not supposed to make you feel anything either.

But how do you feel about not being able to feel anything at all?

Does it hurt? Does it hurt to be you? Is that blood on your mask? Is that pain in your heart?

Where did she go? I just wanted to make her smile.

~

"I see you up again wandering so diligent
Crossing your T's as though it weren't irrelevant
They say formality, this is what they really meant:
They can be the walk and we can, we can be the pavement."
Agesandages

Wind

“There are only patterns, patterns on top of patterns, patterns that affect other patterns. Patterns hidden by patterns. Patterns within patterns."
Chuch Palahniuk

~

I need to get this out.

This silent wind I breathe in is sharpening its heated nails with my lungs, scraping blackened red paint off the wall that falls for no one. So I light up one more lucky cigarette to fight fire with smoke. We all depend on things to make it through the night.

Whatever truly carries your breath and allows your mind to traverse this multiverse of lies, make sure you're going in the right direction. And whatever you push back onto the world with your lips and feet, go for watery brushstrokes of Art, on the right pages of earth and wind.

It's still there and I can't get it out.

The music fades like a vanishing painting and I don't know the spell to bring it back. What I know is that the rhyme is lost to me because the heart I once knew had its drums punctured over time. So what happens now? We light up one more for the sake of ancient fire.

There are two kinds of people. There are those who write the song title first and those who write the artist's name first. There are those who are busy in the race to become the best slave in the system and those who are busy becoming the best person they can be.

What if nothing comes out?

Ring the doorbell and break the wall. There are no doors beyond this smoke. You fall in the well, the well you sow, the well you sow before you broke. This reddish dawn is drawn with blood. And this rain is the ash of all your drugs. So with flooded lungs and shattered drums, reap the pain on which you choke. Breathe in hell,

The presence of missing links underlines a meaningful absence of coherence. What eventually comes out is thus unsound at best and, at worst, me. But the resounding question remains: Who are you? Perhaps you project what you miss onto the blank spaces I leave between the lines, here, and, in-between words and letters which, there, fail to materialize.

The first rule is to partially respect chaos. The second is to find meaning in the song. The third is to allow yourself to get lost in the melody. The fourth is to let go of the parts that don't belong. The fifth is to stop counting rules that don't make sense. And the last rule is to devote your life to understanding the constituents of the glue that stitches rules onto chaos.

The hazy daze is spraying crazed footprints in my head and the stranded pen is stuck in the shadowy circle it sketched to project and protect itself. And I don't know. I don't know anything. Maybe the way for better days is coded in musical notes. Maybe it's in the key under the blind illiterate mat that reads Hope in Old English Text below the nonexistent door on the wall I couldn't break. And maybe there's nothing here. Maybe there's nothing here.

In a state of chaos, there seems to be neither cause nor purpose. In a state of chaos, there are multiple patterns and a single question. And the question shines in multicolored layers in your eyes:

What do you see in the wind?

~

“Words are wind.” 
George R.R. Martin

Dawn

"Those who are dead are not dead, they're just living in my head.

And since I fell for that spell, I am living there as well."

Coldplay

~

To whoever has buried the soul within, I write this to you.

The night is still and the beat is faint as the fight continues between sinner and saint. The night is still and this world is empty for you have lost both self and will. The night is still and your face just turned off all the lights with that flickering candle dancing with your blinks. The night is still and this foreign body I possess longs to see the paintings on your skin. The night is still and starless as I breathe in a scent of dying sighs and microscopic supernovas. The night is still and I still don't know how to move at the sound of this soundless music. The night is still and silent as your lips slowly close and break these words I inaudibly bleed. The night is still and the empty feeling of emptiness envelops me because I am inhibited by an enforced lack of inhibitions. The night is still and you still don't get it, do you? The night is still and I'm failing at writing a musical letter because harmony has long forgotten me. The night is still and the rhyme is free, as I fill the blanks in my memory. The night is still and the blanks reveal themselves as ancient bullets within the beats. The night is still and my blood streams through the electrified hell I hide behind my eyes. The night is still and the supposed windows of the soul are bloodshot with reddish dew, burning in and out and through. So break the door and the still of the night, for tonight the angel's wearing black and the devil, smoking white. Break the door and kill the guards, before the spirit jumps off and turns into red and broken shards. I know that you are the light that shines on the broken and that each person is his own savior. And I know that I am numb and frozen still. But the night is still and I knit this painting with lips made of smoke. The night is still and you still don't get it, do you? The night is still and earthly love mostly swings between a proof and a quest for a self that's always somewhere else. The night is still and these are ashes of a cigarette and not those of a phoenix. The night is still and the fire you start in me burns this quill into blessed sinful ink. The night is still and calm and I wish I could smell your perfume as I imagine kissing the fire off the palm of your hand. The night is still and the wind is pretending to understand how destiny is handwritten with a flowering faith shaking in the storm that fights freedom, the storm that fails to realize that this rose is made of heavenly fire. So enter the world of lonely nights and dying lights. Enter the world that writes with that bright and blissful fabric you fail to hide, to paint the still night with bright broken letters in envelopes you unfold in your dreams. Still, the night is still, so still that it reminds time of my undying love for you while I remind you why those envelopes are undated. So break the door between your heart and mine. Break the door because the music within me is that dimmed light on the floor outside your bedroom. The night is still and you still don't get it. Please wake up. Wake up and break the door. Break it and enter this world with fire in your hands for the night will remain still until you light this broken sky with the dewy faith on your bedroom window and mend it with the reign of the divine love that's beating in raindrops within your chest. The night is still and you still don't get it, do you?

[...]

We are one with fire and rain. We are one with the rose and the flame. We are one with the birds and wolves. We are one with the equations we solve. We are one with the general emotion and the particular thought. We are one in this rainy drought. We are one with the wind in the music. We are one with the beats in our heart, and this heart doesn't rhyme with anything else.

[...]

The night is still but it knows that we are one even if you don't. The night is still and the ending is always the most difficult part. So enter this world of endless stories and maybe one day we'll write the ending of this musical masterpiece of cosmic love, together.

I'll start with the first line.

Your hand is in mine and the lines intersect at dawn.
[...]

I already know your line, by the way.

~

"But I believe in music... 

The way that some people believe in fairy tales."

August Rush

Frisson

“Metaphors have a way of holding the most truth in the least space.” 
Orson Scott Card

~

Silent threads of virtual ink stream in waves of darkened light toward bright eyes. And while the mind seeks to project a meaningful melody onto multifaceted words, I gaze into the friendly night in my room with my eyes open because I know that if I close them, I will see you.

I've long developed the mechanism of transforming intense feelings into concepts. And it usually resembles a giant water-wave fearlessly rushing toward me, only to find itself turned into dust, polishing the multiple sandcastles around my fortress. And yet, there you were, moving with profound grace, unknowingly leaving me out of breath every time you smiled or laughed. The supposedly invincible kingdom of thought has since become as lost and drowned as Atlantis and I honestly don't care because I just want to see you again.

In any case, it was dark and slightly chilly and I was settled on the grass trying to ignore the beautiful moon even though it was clearly playing hide-and-seek with me, trying to make me win, though it knows that I know that it knows how clouds become brighter when it hides behind them. Regardless, the scene was one of wonderful harmony as a mostly soft wind, soul-gazing stars, ancient trees and nostalgic music in my earphones all waited for you to providentially sit next to me and talk. Just talk. But you didn't.

So tell me, do you even know that you are Magic? Do you know that I can't think of metaphors when I picture you in my head because every element in my imagination momentarily disappears? Do you know that I just laughed at myself because I remembered how I childishly smiled when I saw you running in the rain? And now it's worse because I'm not sure whether the scene qualifies as 'heavenly' or 'divine' or simply both.

There are infinite questions and timeless answers, multiple worlds and recurrent dreams, half-written novels and wands at the ready. And then there are the stories that converge as our fingers interlace. And right then and there would come the ending and the ending would never end, because all infinity would be starstruck, and time would henceforth be suspended once the worlds and dreams dormant within my chest get to feel the rhythm of your heart.

And these words that run through me ceaselessly fail but that's okay because images of you are there too and they're interminably beautiful.

Now, moments of magic have always eluded me in a similar manner to how I transcended those that were tragic. And for most of my eventful life, I felt stuck, not knowing what to say or what to feel, how to go or how to heal. Yet, the irrational has happened and I somehow sensed a wind of unknown nature storming into my indifferent eyes.

A fire inside me has awakened.

A fire inside me has awakened and all I can think about is how it would feel to fall asleep around a campfire with you by my side.

~

“When people of similar frequencies come together, output is not a simple sum of individual work, but exponential. In science we term this phenomenon as resonance. Output at this stage is beyond any logical limit.” 
Ravindra Shukla