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

Maps

“Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.”
John Green

~

One of the moderately hidden patterns of life is that a person often says that people never change right before he or she changes into someone very different.

Take a bowl of family problems. Add three spoons of trust issues and half a cup of self-esteem. Mix well. Drown them with a few drops of an over-complicated history of disinterest and seventy-one milliliters of unfinished business. I don't know the rest of the recipe but I recall that the whole thing has a very peculiar taste of emptiness.

So yeah I don't know why you want me to write about myself. But here goes nothing.

I usually dislike it when people call me weird because it reminds me of how I always fail to belong. Most of my recent problems stem from my tendency to transform everything I feel into ideas and concepts because it's far easier than processing feelings. I enjoy using song lyrics to think when I get bored of my daily recurrent thoughts. I would like to own a chain of restaurants one day. When I run into people, I try to envision how they used to look as children. I believe that true love happens only once and that it never dies. I also believe that friendship is more important than blood, that randomness does not exist and that society is a phantom concept. The contents of my head usually belong to one or more of five different sections: P, M, C, D and I. P stands for psycho-social, M stands for metaphysical and I'll tell you about the other three when I see you. In any case, let us call the PMCDI map, I-Map for simplicity. This I-map has a shadow counterpart for raw feelings called the L-map. The latter, however, does not contain sections because my heart happens to be indivisible; it's all or nothing. Anyway, the L-map contains songs, a number of unforgettable memories, fictional characters from stories and TV shows, people I know, people I used to know, and, of course, you.

The two maps are quite honestly worlds apart. And yet, in between the two lies a different kind of map, one of infinitely powerful links, that sometimes allows the dimensions to converge in moments of pure beauty. Two of four walls in my room and my beloved ceiling refer to this special map as the M-map. And though I'm not sure whether the M stands for meaning, magic or metaphor, I'm good with the name.

So in summary, I guess my being can be reduced to three maps: I, M and L. I know it might seem very boring now but when I draw them for you on paper with all the main theories, numbers, names, symbols and songs, you'll see how your initials happen to mark the treasure at the heart of the M-map, how the I-map shuts down every time we kiss and how the L-map almost beats out of my shirt when you jump to hug me.

I hope this wasn't too weird or too disappointing. I hope to be good enough for you. And I really hope that you will be smiling somewhere in the next thirty seconds.

One of the moderately hidden patterns of life is that no matter how much I change, I will always love you.

~

"Everything will change, but love remains the same."
Gavin Rossdale