Movies

"And when you go don't return to me my love."
My Chemical Romance

~

The door isn't open. Maybe it never really was. But I can pretend. I can always pretend.

"Give me a shot to remember and you can take all the pain away from me."

The shadow of the unknown beckons. I can feel it stretching across the blankness of my mask. The long lost scent of childhood is either dead or undercover. And, I cannot yet unmask this state of shade. The same old heaviness keeps increasing in invisible weight. Let go.

Let go and know that, in non-random fact, the truth shines through your cracks and whispers to your eyes: 'Tomorrow, I will be revealed.' Meanwhile, acrylic delusions frantically blink, staring at whatever colors they'd been spitting on my face. Don't let go.

Bits and pieces of me may well be scattered across the enneagram lines. But, you... do you really think you're swimming in my stream of consciousness? Look around. You're inside your own head. For the lines that, in your eyes, blur out the rest, they're on the other side of the coin you always flip. And they were facing the horizon right before you shoved them in, right before you sold them out to flush the red sea of lies, the one you'd pushed out of your lungs just to decorate that beautiful boring room.

"You're just a sad song, with nothing to say, about a lifelong wait for a hospital stay."

This soundtrack is bruised and broken. It might as well be dead. But our pictures are in motion and they bear no frames - they extend; they extend to infinity. Now the question is right there. It's always been there. 'Are you watching closely?' Are you listening? Are your lines in the script tearing up the fabric of your heartstrings? Do you need to talk to the director?

"Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands, Romeo."

Get out. I can't always pretend.

~

"We all carry on, when our brothers in arms have gone.
So raise your glass high for tomorrow we die,
And return from the ashes you call."
My Chemical Romance

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

Theory

“Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right.”
 Isaac Asimov

~

The headache takes over. My fictional bubble tightens its grip on my extremities. They all become silhouettes though I know that they are so much more and that they, too, have bubbles. It's amazing how people can write so many things about their feelings though they don't truly know those people they love. In theory, I see all the ethical, religious and psycho-social patterns falling back to love - or lack thereof. In theory, I find music, literature and art struggling with sounds and symbols, nature and soul, to have a chance at communicating the fabric of love through chills, tears and accelerating or decelerating heartbeats. In theory, I miss my best friend. In theory, I wish I were capable of teleportation. In theory, almost everything is theoretical no matter how much you refer to it as practical experience.

If humans had a button that could play the song of whatever their brainwaves have to say, the world would be alright. Or, maybe, it would be far worse than it is now.

There are many paths, many ideas, many theories. And we discover some of them. Yet one must always remember that these mostly well-paved roads had been there long before we found them, that these roads could have only been created by an intelligent designer.

But it's amazing how almost every single ego is inflated. We don't know for sure why we were born or why we die. And going forward from this point to that one, we convince ourselves that we comprehend patterns of knowledge, even though we struggle to link the few core ideas we have from one layer to another. Hell, we don't even know how these ideas come to mind. All in all, we know virtually nothing. We don't know ourselves. We're not capable of knowing other people's intentions. And while science, with its widely acclaimed progress, continues to succeed in avoiding the important questions, mankind continues to fail in understanding all the words that matter - Time. Consciousness. Love. Identity. Human. Purpose.

So ask them. Ask them about the label they wrap around their pen. Ask them about the grace in their handwriting, and the purpose of its content. Then wonder about the significance of this broken pen and burning paper compared to the vastness of the universe - unless of course it is within us, and our pens, and brushes and chords redefine it, falling short almost everyday.

I wish I could do better. I wish I could swear that I try my best. But the only thing I can say for sure is that I feel like a theoretical wishing well, one that never works.

~

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
 Martin Luther King Jr

Swim

ليه ليهمني اني كون بدل من اني صير؟

كل الأشياء بتعيش لتنتهي بلحن جديد

الفرق بين الحرية والخضوع تخيير

.أنا لي اخترت. أنا لي قبلت. أنا لي قلت 

مشروع ليلى

~

Capture the moment. These lines are the broken streets to redemption. And, yes, none of this really matters. But let us play. Let us choose all the players and leave the void all alone on the bench. Ideas of sunrises and sunsets have gotten pretty sick of my redundant words by now. But that's okay.

All the colors are wrong. All the colors are wrong. And the details on your face are broken down equations. And though they're riddled with miscalculations and derived from unholy laws, they always add up to the right answer when you smile.

I never asked for any of this. This foreign reality is hiding the stagnant scent of childhood beneath their eyelids. And I see nothing but locally manufactured pain setting record-breaking corner-to-corner lap times in their eyes.

So drink up my empty gaze foolish little brother. Replenish my doubts with your leaking bloodstream. Let us drink to all the penknives that redefined our veins. Let us paint our tired dreams with these bloodshot eyes and those grayish-blue brushes we have stuck between our lashes. Drink up this baroque art foolish little brother before your post-impressionist heart crumbles to wheat grains.

Let there be light and many, many shadows - are you there?

The door opens.

The door opens like an old and rusted wound. And I want to close it because I'd rather keep my apologies in my heart, because my absence tastes better than my presence, because this planet doesn't feel like home.

Let it out. Tell them. Tell them that you hate it here. Tell them that you'd rather die. Tell them that you have the right to disappear forever. Tell me what happened. Tell me why all the colors are wrong. Tell me that things change when we really want them to.

The door closes.

The door closes and we both know that it's time to leave. Let go. Release the moment for the lines have already faded. I wish I could make you feel better. But I can't. Yet, I wonder if you're looking through the keyhole. I wonder why I find incoherence so appealing.

Blessed be the knight of infinite resignation. And blessed be the knight of faith.

Game over - soon.

~

سمي الشيطان بإسمو وسمي الفنان كذاب"

نصف الأشياء يلي بحسها بتجي من الخيال 

وإذا بناقد نفسي كلنا منحتوي أعداد

".أنا لي كبرت. أنا لي قبلت. أنا لي قلت

مشروع ليلى

Stream

"Cut out all the ropes and let me fall."
Birdy

~

The night is dark. The breath is stale. I try my best.

She's the fastest runner I've ever seen. A ball of fire bouncing from star to star. An untouchable comet. But the subtle truth is that she's so much more than that. And when she starts running toward herself, she's gonna see how beautiful she is and things won't be as blurry.

My cliché metaphors are usually based on natural elements. And that's okay. I try my best.

My identity is flaunting its cartwheels in between the sea-waves. And yeah, I can't see a thing. The purple sky is dead. And the wind around me is impregnated with all the words I fail to transcribe. That's okay too. Disappointed idealists and fractured perfectionists. The road to spontaneity is like recycled toilet paper. His dead eyes cover the withered leaves that still hang onto his rib cage with their torn and scentless wings.

I don't deserve my friends. They're wonderful. Maybe one day, I'll feel better about this.

I used to think that we become what we lose. I don't think so anymore even though I know it's true. The paradox that paints the difference between being and becoming stares at you in the face every other second. Some of them know that every word is a battle, that every thought is an ethical decision, that there are so many people. There are so many people.

The plot lines aren't that thick. The patterns are just too entangled and the variables insanely hard to define. But it's all the same drama really. The good part is that character development is interestingly unpredictable. What are you waiting for?

I wish I knew what to do next. I wish I knew what to say next. But incoherence is all I can offer right now. And that's okay because at least I'm not pretending that I'm not confused. How can I not be? With all these old versions of me buried layer upon layer, incongruent crap hiding behind 'spiritual existentialism' and 'metaphorical resonance', how can I not be confused? Maybe he's right. Maybe I am a 'bullshit artist'.

I'm sorry. I know this isn't good enough. But that's okay. It's okay because it helps me relieve my repressed deep-seated anger. I'm just tired, okay? I'm tired and my heart remains a no-show. You shouldn't have said what you said. It's not okay. I'm not okay.

The bullshit is clogging my throat, leaking through my fingertips. So, yeah, here you go.

The light is dark. The breath is hopeful. I try my best for love's sake.

The quest continues. The lies keep piling up. The ocean is as wild as ever. The sky is clear. The sky is clear. Shuffle the cards. Re-shuffle.

~

"There is a light and it never goes out."
The Smiths

Resonance

"Well, bless my soul
You're a lonely soul
'Cause you won't let go
Of anything you hold."
Ryan Tedder

~

Do you know where your heart is?

The hardest questions are those you do not ask. And all their answers are buried in your mental blind spot. Now there are right and wrong answers in this 'visual snow'. Then there's you, covered in the multithreaded blankets of your optic nerve, pretending this blood is acrylic. And I'm there too. Or at least, part of me is. You won't find me beneath the shadow of synchronicity because I won't be there. But perhaps I'll be that forgotten variable that got crossed out by mistake in the mystical equation resonance always wears as a necklace. Crossed out and forgotten, sure, but I'll be there.

My fixation on a number of mysteriously attractive expressions remains unchanged. And that's okay. Maybe they're those empty diners along the road to purpose. I know most people are ideas - I think. And that's okay too. So are you an idea in their life? Are you a road sign or a street light? Are you a traffic signal or a torn bumper sticker? Are you one of those ideas that come with an expiration date?

He wanted to tell her everything but he didn't. Metaphors came rushing to his mind. The light that drowned the river. The moonlight that jumped off tree branches to land on her skin with an assortment of purple morning glories. His favorite fictional friends implored him to tell her about them, about all their chilling moments. Then the voices came and reminded him about the purple death of dawn and the failed birth of stars, the breathless haste and the daunting heart, and... those sudden bursts of heartache that fucking burn every beautiful image in your head. What happened to you?

I don't know. I don't know if there's someone who can save you from that freefall under the sheets. I don't know if there's a remedy for all those who were knocked unconscious by the lies of society. I don't know if this rotten world can be fixed. It's as if there's this force, you know, a force that won't stop erasing people's identities. Is it their doing?

That was useless.

The world is ugly. And the lonely stranger awakens everyday to walk it alone, knowing that, this, it isn't his home. Wherever he goes, the inviolable fabric of existence asks him terribly ambiguous questions.

What do you see?

Come back inside. Get back to bed.

Don't just stand there; paintings are formless. Don't look at me like that. I can see the dense blood drops slowly sliding off the right corner of your lips, you know? And though I'm not sure whether they're dreams or sins and secrets, I know your eyes can smell their rusted scent of despair. I know your heartbeats have long given up on becoming free-floating clouds, hopelessly hoping to swing the self-inflicted gore back inside. I know that you know that the children of a broken cardiac rhythm are but dehydrated, forlorn hands, recurrently feeding you the delusion within the delusion, punching holes through the painting, spitting you out as you swallow the void and exhale the inner child - dead on the dead knees that got tired from chasing you, his soul submerged in a shallow fictional red.

I don't dare you to move. But please, please do. And, for now, it's okay if you don't mind the gap between Kant and Kierkegaard. Because we both know only divine grace can you lift you up. And we both know that not a single soul cares about your inner battle - because they all know you're collateral damage.

No. [...] Because some singers pause their singing only to rekindle the hope beneath the moment.

So let there be light and many, many shadows. And blessed be the brave that are stuck in between, both wound and unwound by the teleologically suspended question, resting invisibly atop the woven waves of dreaded ink.

The question is right there. It's right here.

Do you think you can find it?

~

"People say that it can't work, black and white; well here we make it work, everyday. We have our disagreements, of course, but before we reach for hate, always, always, we remember the Titans."
Sheryl

Split

“Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is like a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue. ” 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

~

Lonely wanderers unite in separation, falling in raindrops through your windshield. And as the beautifully broken breaths of rain find gentle rest on your tender skin, I pull you in closer, and I hug you tighter. And, for a split second, all the desperate seekers of the world find home in our embrace.

The road to love is paved with mystery. The colors on the street depend on the clarity of your heart. The surrounding buildings are adorned with perfect pain and breathtaking joy. And we could be walking there now, hand in hand, carrying each other's hearts wherever they want to go.

Some say that everything here has an expiry date. Others believe that some things last as long as eternity.

Stories have been told and re-told. Words have been designed and composed, recycled and sold. And, today, I find myself wanting to write out thoughts and feelings in secondhand wording though I have no story to tell. I thus find myself filling the void with empty metaphors and darkened smoke. But that's okay.

Time flows faster, racing the tides of motion, blazing through space to finish off this bond and the one after. We breathe it in thinking that we have it contained when, in reality, its bullets are already out through our holey skin, setting the scene for our unholy grave.

But there is music in this world, music worth fighting for. It is the kind of music that silently cuts you deep so its tear-perfumed light can pervade the abyss beneath your heart. The music reminds us that there are souls worth the trouble, and that their smiles are infinitely more valuable than our pain-born hatred.

Yet I am tired and out of soul. And every road undertaken holds beside it a thousand roads untraveled and a wealth of unopened neural pathways.  I am tired and out of soul. And there is no one here because the door is locked with a key I lost long, long ago.

Still, I remind myself that change is inevitable, that it is necessary. And like a flock of birds alters its formation, so too must the stars we have enclosed within.

By the fields, near the lake, I once whispered all of my secrets to everyone around me. But I was alone because no one was there. I remember that I told them about the dark side of red, that part they always left unread. And I told them about the violet shade of blue, and how pain always starts in you. I spat out the driest words of dread, with blood clots hanging by a thread. And now I give that thread to you today so that you pull out this wretched heart of clay.

Hidden demons unite in separation, falling in fire-drops onto our skin. And as the beautifully broken ocean lays us to rest, you pull me in closer, and you hug me tighter. And, for a split second, I almost believe that you're here.

~

“Here too it’s masquerade, I find: 
As everywhere, the dance of mind.
I grasped a lovely masked procession,
And caught things from a horror show…
I’d gladly settle for a false impression,
If it would last a little longer, though.” 
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Graceful

"He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world."
Markus Zusak

~

Blessed be the brave.

It doesn't matter, really.

This wall needs to be broken down. I know my words aren't good enough. The world is filled with delusional freedom fighters. It makes you wonder who's pulling the strings. It makes you see that the ego is steering these wheels towards the edge of doom. I've always been into conspiracy theories. And though I don't know whether my subconscious mind was trying to tell me that my ego was scheming to seize control of my soul, I know that there is only one kind of grace that can destroy any and all devilish plans.

It does matter.

But I've lost too many rounds. And I keep pretending that I'm not afraid of that invisible thing weighing over my heart. I'm exhausted, you see. But, losing rounds makes you stronger, doesn't it? Yes it does. But what about those extra voices that accompany the pain in the memories? What about the cuts and the bruises and all the blood you covered with your blinks while it leaked out of your soul? You bury all those things in the places you love the most, the places that allow you to breathe, places you assassinate one by one because a slow death is subtly different from suicide.

It really doesn't matter.

There are people you love. There are people you hurt without meaning to. And then there's that darkness where there is no one, not even you, especially not you. All those broken machines you can't fix because you can't fix yourself, forget them. It happened that you were taught to never give up. But for what reasons? There are people you love. And then there's you. But what are you without them? How strong are you compared to the idea of losing him? How strong are you compared to the idea of losing her? And what about the feelings carrying this idea? Where did this come from? Where is it going? What are you doing? What are you not doing? Why are all these voices hiding behind immaterial masks? Is that grass or rubble atop your grave?

I usually take cover behind an armor of metaphors. But this time I'm not on my feet. I'm not even on my knees. I just needed the words to bleed out of my lungs because I can't breathe. I've always aimed for my heart. I've always thought I would bring it home. Of course, back then, I thought I knew what home really meant, and I thought I had one.

There are no words. Every human being who has ever written a word knows deep down that - there are no words.

So what to conclude? When nothing ever was and nothing ever is, how dare I tell you that everything is gonna be okay? When all I can hold onto is my ever-faithful void, and all that I ever was is a broken chess set with half the pieces missing, you can't imagine how easy it is to imagine the ending.

There it is.

Blessed be the patient.

Will it matter?

~

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality."
Jim Morrison 

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

Snow

“I feel too much. That's what's going on.' 'Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?' 'My insides don't match up with my outsides.' 'Do anyone's insides and outsides match up?' 'I don't know. I'm only me.' 'Maybe that's what a person's personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.' 'But it's worse for me.' 'I wonder if everyone thinks it's worse for him.' 'Probably. But it really is worse for me.” 
Jonathan Safran Foer

~

The walls were deep dark purple. The door was grey on the inside and it was open. The room was empty. The wooden floor carried the scent of burnt-out stars and I was sitting there by the corner. There were no windows. The ceiling was made of reflective ice and it became blurry whenever I pictured the faces of the people I loved. It was all fiction. It was safe fiction, and so was I.

He could enumerate his complexes in non-alphabetical order and compare the sum of the numerical values, corresponding to each of the starting letters, to the difference in salinity between the left eyelashes and the right ones. He could write this whole damn spectacle in an equation and solve it with his eyes closed but he could never apply the result. He could always tell the difference between arrogance and despair, lurking in the spaces between the lines, trembling in the tells beneath the lies, and sending him back to bed, where all dreams lie broken, dead, unread.

I can't tell you where it all went wrong even I wanted to. I can write it down in patterns and maps across the infinite realm of metaphors. I can't remember when exactly it all broke down and I'm not even sure I want to. I can breathe out smoke and become skin but it seems that I was built to do it the other way around. I can't say that I can do whatever I set my mind to - not anymore. I can tell you how you feel. You can break these chains whenever you want to. You can break them; and timing is key.

But the door is open, remember? How would it feel to be open door to an empty room?

Maybe the truth - the attainable one - lies in the distance between fiction and reality, time and timing, freedom and necessity, hope and despair, between the finite and the infinite, the eternal and the temporal, the sickness and the remedy, and, maybe, between the left eye that reads the lies and the right one that sees through them. And maybe the sum of all these distances will one day become you.

I don't like labels but I think all human beings are delusional. And the grandest delusion of them all is when we make the slightest smile of all, the smile that thinks it understands what it just read, what it just said, though it neither sees beyond the wine nor tastes the heartbroken bread.

The point is that, that there is this veil. The point is right there, right behind the veil. That's why everything you see, everything you see is always asking you the same question, here and here and there: What do you see? What do you see? What do you see?

[...]

Once, there were dreams and then, there were none. Twice and thrice, I faked and faded,

Maybe it's time I take my best shot.

The walls are still the same, though a lot of people have tagged their names and left. The door is maroon-black on the outside and it's closed shut. But it's still fiction out here. And I can't wait till you see the invisible paint I have on my face.

Maybe the truth is in the difference between these colors we exchange and all those we keep to ourselves.

I'm sorry I ran out of colors.

~

“Think of what starlight 
And lamplight would lack 
Diamonds and fireflies 
If they couldn’t lean against Black...” 
Mary O'Neill

Bulletproof

"Lost my heart

When I found it

It had turned to dead, black coal."

Sixto Rodriguez

~

He shoots.

Imagine an ocean covered in clouds. Come down, and through. And look right. If you look closely, there's this thin horizontal space hovering in-between white and blue. And that's where you're suspended. Now, if you have water on your face, then you must understand, deep down, that one must not dwell in metaphors, no matter how swell the reflections on the waves or how comfortable that bed of clouds.

But everything's interconnected and it's beautiful. And while the two voices in my head tell me that the universe is within and that all the colors of the world extract their ink from your retina, the third voice sings the discordant chorus in the background: "Run, quit and disappear. Get back to bed." And it makes me wonder. It makes me wonder if all this wondering is coded in the same pattern my feet always sculpt in the terrible sands of reality. It makes me wonder if I'm at least a good enough runner to get some sand up there with the useless dust -at the turn of my chin- on that mirror. Maybe that way, the guy in the reflection will appreciate the effort and let me fade away without the extra bullets in the back of my head. Maybe one day, your reflection won't let him shoot. And they'll both watch us walking away into this hellish madness, painting gardens of bliss under our feet.

Are you fearless or are you too afraid to even realize what it is you fear?

Are you fearless or do you just have nothing to lose?

How can you be both fearless and loving?  It stars with an F.

[...]

If only you knew my story, maybe then you would understand why I vanished; first last sorry goodbye.

Perspectives and interpretations dizzily spin above two concentric circles, and the colors, if any, shift from warm or cold on the light spectrum - nothing to declare.

Enter dark cold rain. An old white hoodie with blood-orange stains. The river flows in you and so too does the light from that train. The mind wanes and wails and trails behind the rhythm so you put on your headphones to follow the pain and silence the source that echoes it... that maimed heart, masquerading as this crooked hand, bent to write all this 'inkkrap' just to get through the night.

[...]

The broken deconstruct the script. The bent twist the tale. The dreamer designs the metaphor. The actor salutes the empty stage. The dust seeps through the mirror. The clouds impersonate a smoke screen. The story becomes the characters... or is it the other way around?

He bows.

~

"But don't bother to buy insurance 'cause you've already died."

Sixto Rodriguez

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

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