Butterflies

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
Aldous Huxley

~

It’s crazy, isn’t it?

It’s crazy how everyone’s insane, how they keep pretending not to be.
The night is devoid of comets and stars. And I have three cigarettes left. It’s funny how I try to silence the pain with toxins, though I know poison could never be a cure. But I’m well-acquainted with the easy way out and I’m tired. I tried to convince her why she shouldn’t kill herself. And I saw my failure reflected in her eyes.

My fingers tremble because I’m overwhelmed by all the pain I see around me - not because they’re typing intense words. What I let out is nothing compared to the world my eyes perceive. All I see is hurt; a world of dying butterflies slowly crashing to the ground like multicolored leaves. The night is devoid of color and soul. And I have two cigarettes left.

How can they not see the patterns? The path to perdition is set. The road to self-destruction is paved with broken smiles and desperate lies. The confusion is deafening. And I can’t listen to the cosmic melody because all I see is the blood on their hands as they play their instruments. Someone once said that we become what we lose. He was wrong. We become what we want to become.
The night is devoid of moonlit words. And I have one cigarette left.

She couldn’t unzip her dress. So he helped her. And her skin was like that of a flower unfolding the beauty of the universe behind all the smoke streaming through his lips. There’s the universal, the particular and the veil we’re trying to pierce. There’s the actor, the audience and the curtain closing as we speak. Then there’s you and me, and the mystical unity we fail to breathe. And this night is devoid of love and sanity. And I’m all out of cigarettes. And I’m all out of love.

This smoke is as real as the grand delusion. And it mixes well with all the words I could never say. So take this secondhand ramification of endeavors that never made it out of my head. Take it even though words will never be actions. Take it because I’m out of breath and out of smoke. And I can borrow the latter but does anyone have a breath to spare?
The night is devoid of light. And I wish that I could say that 'there is a light and it never goes out.'

But not tonight.

Tonight we die. But tomorrow, we live again. 

~

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent”
Victor Hugo

Insanity

“I'll take crazy over stupid any day.” 

Joss Whedon

~

It feels as if there's a wall preventing me from expressing myself. I don't know what to think and I don't want to think anymore. So, instead of feeling this, whatever this is, I'm going to talk about it. And I won't feel anything.

He was born and raised in a country drowning in terrible feelings and poisoned ideas. As a child, growing up, he could not express what he truly felt or thought because it wouldn't be accepted. He wouldn't be accepted. And since the most essential need for kids is recognition, he, of course, didn't get any of that. Thus, a kid, he remained.

He wasn't doing well. He stayed that way until he was bruised by his own clothes, friends he would have died for. He wasn't doing well after that either. It started with 'under the bed' becoming 'in the mirror' but, eventually, he was able to see the monsters, whether actual or potential, in everyone, and everything. 

And then, something magical happened. Or, at least, that's why I hear him telling himself at night, that the world is rotten but he somehow found a loophole, that everything is linked and it all makes sense, that love and faith and art the strongest forces in the universe, and that he's one of their freedom fighters. But is he really? Or is he just a small lie in the matrix of manipulation?

So what's the problem? What's your problem? Are these your eyes? Is this your voice? Do you even have a voice? What have you lost? What have you lost? What have you become? What are you hoping for? Why the hell are you here? Why are you not feeling anything? Are you okay?

The most famous, non-technical definition of insanity is the following:

“Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.” 

Does that make sanity doing the same thing, over and over, expecting the same result? Or is it 'different things' and 'same result'? Or perhaps 'different things' and 'different results'?

More importantly, what does that make you? Is it wrong to be insane in a mad world? What's the difference between people who talk to themselves out loud and others who keep it in? Is it terribly unusual for someone to envision their own personal world and talk to the fictional people in it? Is it okay? Is it that different from what you do? When you talk to the images in your head, of those human beings you don't truly know, these people you refer to as friends and family, when you weave this subjectively imagined world of ideas and feelings about them, is that okay?

He wasn't okay. The bridge between physical and psychological pain was nonexistent because they were both the same land suffocating under anxious heartbeats disguised in deeply distraught water-waves filling his lungs. It is also said, in my head, that to switch between sanity and madness you must learn the difference between leading your mind and being led by it. Good luck. He wasn't okay. I'm not okay either. Yeah, me neither. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry this didn't make you feel anything. I can't give you what I don't have myself, when I can't see myself. But that's okay. Everything is gonna be okay, right?

And then, something magical happened.

~

“Awareness is the enemy of sanity, for once you hear the screaming, it never stops.” 

Emilie Autumn

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