Child

"I'll be yours
When it rains it pours
Stay thirsty like before
Don't you know that the kids aren't al-
Kids aren't alright."
Fall Out Boy

~

I need to do this well. I need to do this right. If I don't, then I'll have nothing left to hold on to. If I can't jump over this wall at the edge of my fingertips, what does that make me? I tried on many labels and none of them worked. If I can't write anymore, what else should I do? If I can't arrange the words in a way that makes me feel something, how can I genuinely move anyone else? If I keep forcing this by intentionally lining up letters to face my existential crisis for me, will this headache go away? Why are all the holes in the ground waiting for me to dig deeper? Why aren't there any holes in the wall? I'm just tired and out of breath. And I need to let things out. But I can't write anymore. I can pretend. It's very easy to pretend, as you can see. But like most things in life, this is bullshit. I'm sorry.

Now, I must dedicate this to this voice I can't recognize as my own. And as it now silently transforms my dedication into the empty acknowledgments of a worn-out novel made up by the blank pages it contains, I would like to thank, most impassively, the dark shadows in between the papers, putting the desolation to light and mysterious sleep. This is the emotionless story I make-believe about all that within me beats in vain. And it now ends with your eyes, gazing as blankly as they should.

None of this was supposed to happen, but it did. It happened and I didn't. And if I could destroy all these mirrors I call metaphors, I would. No, I wouldn't. I would never give up this illusion for the terrible delusions of reality. I would rather live forever in this uninspired lack of inspiration than accept this collective brokenness, that grand affliction pushing against my eyes, against the heart I hid behind the void, my beautiful impermeable void that challenges this failing world to pierce it.

Yes, the world is ugly but my horizon is unbent. My horizon is unbent. The world is ugly but I live on because there's good music and good people - and because Christmas is coming. The world is ugly but there is a loophole in this loop of holes that have me by the neck. My horizon is unbent. The world is ugly and I can't breathe well. The world is ugly and I can't breathe right. The world is ugly but I have you to hold on to. The world is ugly but there's no wall I can't jump over if I know that come dawn I'll have your skin at the edge of my fingertips. The world is ugly but all its labels blur out whenever we lock eyes or hands or bodies or the door and the world behind it before we go to sleep. The world is ugly and I can write time into oblivion just to make your heart skip a beat or two with mine by its side. The world is ugly and I hope this is making you smile because I broke all these walls just to get here and hug you. My horizon is unbent, you see. The world is ugly but I'm hugging you now and this is wonderful even if it's not really happening. In my head, the world is, sometimes, almost as beautiful as you are.

And thus we knock on the door beyond chaos and perdition. And then we knock some more. We play hide and seek with the magic seeping out from each side of the veil. Sometimes it's light. Sometimes it's pale. And sometimes it's dark. But there is a remedy in the music that moves all that is frail. So can you hear the beat in this awfully composed cure? Can you hear the faint melody knocking on your chest? Can you see the magic painting your face? Or are these blank pages on the surface of your eyes?

As I said, I can pretend. It's very easy to pretend, though you might not see. And like most things in life, this is a love letter disguised as bullshit. And i'm not sorry anymore. I'm intentionally lining up the next letters to face you.

uoy evol I

And it now ends with your eyes, gazing back at mine.

That unbent horizon, this is it.

~

"And in the end
I'd do it all again.
I think you're my best friend.
Don't you know that the kids aren't al- 
Kids aren't alright."
Fall Out Boy

Sleep

“In a mad world, only the mad are sane.”
Akira Kurosawa

~

The echo behind the whisper in the voice told me that the meaning of the meaning of life reveals itself in those colored bits outside the lines.

Do you see them?

Now do you see the artist's hand tearing through the painting? It throws a spear into your left eye because it wants you to see it right. It wants you to get out of your supposed self, zoom out, and see the second painting, the picture of a recollection of a bloodshot awakening.

Now go back to the first one.
Do you smell the blood on your cheeks?

This is the blood of the heart of the heart of the matter, the co-authored fabric of a waning soul as it weaves waves of scented verses, a red and wrinkled rhyme, a poem on your face.

Truth is, broken borders are gateways for the gallant, to embrace the patterns beneath the chaos, to hold the pulse in the blood of the heart of the heart of the matter that has nothing to do with matter.

So can you hear it? It's knocking on the door behind you, like the wind of sinusoidal hope fading in and out of faithful light, through the only keyhole you've ever really known.

Yeah. Okay. Now what? What do I do with all these words?

[...]

How do I turn it off? How do I make it stop? Why am I thinking about so many things that I don't really want to say? I don't want to get it right anymore, I just want to get it. I want to say what's really going on. I want what's inside to come out unchanged even if all that I am left with is noise. I want the words to honestly reflect who I am without all the games and illusions. I want to make sure that I am not a fraud, that I am not a growing cancer of fabrications. I want to be real. I don't want to be a well-told lie about the content of an empty shell. I want to be real. I don't want fiction anymore. I want to be real. Why won't anyone teach me how to be real?

[...]

What a sad way to wake up. The pain brings you to your knees. You're all alone - just like you always were. And all these metaphors you take shelter in are just as weak and broken as you are. Just go back to sleep.

Live on.

I can't anymore.

~

"He who lives more than one life, more than one death he suffers."
Oscar Wilde

Awe

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” 

Rudyard Kipling

~

I was frozen face down, my nose nearing a centered hug to the edge of the pavement, and life's bare foot thundered down on the back of my head. Reddish retrocausal lightning ensued in a bloodied painting with no title. The shattered fabric of the crushed brain dyed the sidewalk dust with the dry dew of the paradoxical void - a silent story read in between the lines of cobblestone about a broken face of a soul that wrote itself off onto the empty memory of a conceptual black hole that sucked life's misstep into the razor-light mirror-like shredder I was hiding behind my eyes. And thus the only hug was that of a two-dimensional bear-trap set to the seventh Solfeggio frequency folding life's knee into counter-clockwise oblivion. The scent was that of frozen concrete melting at the touch of the eccentric lullaby of a victim of anti-heroism, an artless artist with ink flowing from the edge of his hair to the shadowy sunset of life's heel. What you heard was the melodic ink, a rhyme and a tale about the minute difference, all delicate and frail, between the hellish curtains and the holy veils, the ruptured mirrors and the punctured grails, the conceptual twist of the maze-like tails and the paradigm shift of the wind in the sails,

Adjusting.

Speak of necessary fine-tuning to the projector of meaning before the story ends, beneath the pattern that bends under the weight of reality settled on the surface of the black swamp in your hair. Speak to the night of the morning pale, the edge of colored thoughts and humid lyrics about the reconstructed taste of dawn in the tea and the Pyrrhic victory of two ends converging behind the illuminated bitter-sweetness of smoke. 

Failing.

There are no words.

Some see words as series of clawing strikes to the face of existence attempting to rip it of its raw beauty, leaving lettered scars in a light of diminished value. That's why they say that there are no words, why silence is revered in the realm of beauty.

Obviously, I disagree.

There are words. And when placed in the right way, for the right reasons, the words, presumably read at the right time, will change both you and your existence. And they will then tell you that it is up to you to change the world.

Re-adjusting.

My words often fail to make it back from the realm of metaphorical resonance. They fail to make a difference. But we are who we are and it is what it is. No.

Now, what if we could see the different scales that map the maze of mankind, the magical axis of imaginary time, and the bright light of childlike wonder floating in between the moment and the while - what happens then?

The iris was frozen in the labyrinth it holds, and life put a knife through its back.

So it poured its story of melancholic tears in the thirsty lines between cockroach mountains. No.

I found the axis set to the beat of my heart.

And I discovered that the light was made of metaphors. 

I opened the map at every turn and every curl and I kept asking myself, what do you see?

What do you see? What do you see?

I saw the map staring back at me.

I happened.

And now, there are no words.

~

"Once we realize the extraordinary power we have to compose our lives, we'll move from passive, conditioned thinking to being co-creators of our fate."

Jason Silva