Bracelets

"Don't, don't, don't, don't."

Simple Minds

~

It's late and I... I really don't know what to say. Let's see. I'm listening to music to feel better about myself. Sting's Shape of my Heart is playing. "He doesn't play for the money he wins. He doesn't play for respect. He deals the cards to find the answer, the sacred geometry of chance, the hidden law of a probable outcome - The numbers lead a dance." I think anyone would love this song.

Once more, tonight, I'll be hiding behind words. And yes, I know the night is beautiful, even if I can't really feel it. Boyce Avenue's cover of Drops of Jupiter is playing. "Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken? Your best friend always sticking up for you, even when I know you're wrong. Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance, five-hour phone conversation? The best soy latte that you ever had - and me." I wonder if I'll ever learn to play an instrument and make someone feel this way.

"Et si j'ai tort de lire dans tes pensées où rien de beau ne m'échappe - à part toi. Seuls, quelques silences m'effleurent encore quand je dors. Je n'ai plus de raison d'aimer. Et tant pis si je me détruis et je fais le tour de tes mots, tes promesses et tes envies d'ailleurs." The only thing that's more interesting than structure is that freedom one almost feels when they break the structure.

It's truly funny how other people's words can get to me more than my own. My veins are emotion-intolerant. Maybe that's why sometimes my heart seems as if it's gonna explode. Maybe I should stop smoking. He wanted to have the bracelet that was made of my heartstrings. And he has it now even though I had vowed to myself that this bracelet would be the final witness to my final pulse. It's truly funny how, sometimes, everything makes sense - even when all that is substance feels too foreign to exist.

"Do or die, you'll never make me. Because the world will never take my heart. Though you try, you'll never break me. We want it all, we wanna play this part. I won't explain or say I'm sorry. I'm not ashamed, I'm gonna show my scar. Give a cheer for all the broken. Listen here, because it's only-"

What are words compared to this? This thing you can't see. This heaviness I don't want to feel. I don't want to feel. Welcome to the dark side of melancholy.

Welcome to the black parade.

~

"Hey, hey, hey, hey."

Simple Minds

Nothing

"You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do."
Anne Lamott

~

I kept trying to change her mind but I couldn't. I had so many chances to show her that she was wrong. And I failed. Maybe there's a point behind her sickness. Maybe it's for the best that her memory is so remarkably damaged.

The soft wind falls gently on my skin and it all feels so undeserved. I seem incapable of writing anything novel. It's all a bunch of recycled secondhand words that I can't escape. I keep shedding them like dead skin and they just always find a way to grow back.

I know it's not a big lie. And I know the game isn't rigged. But think about it. What's the point of writing or reading any of this? It's useless. It's just a way to convince ourselves that our lives are worth being examined. 

But is it worth it, really? Who gave you the right to think that your life is worthy of this or that honor? Are you full of yourself to the level of believing that your struggle deserves a narrator? Does anyone really care? Or is it all for your entertainment? More drama, anyone?

Look around for God's sake.

These words are like those old reeking rags you see failing to cover an ugly balcony of a nameless shattered home. They're like a worn-out welcome mat that has no key under it. They're like a broken door. They're like my broken door. Why can't I let anyone through? Why do I not have better words?

I don't want any of this. I just want to sleep. I'm not even sure why I wake up everyday. This is not even creative. It's narrative-ish. I wonder if this mosquito knows how much I don't care about her drinking habits. I wonder if the stars who were once my friends still remember my name.

Here goes nothing. Really, nothing. Nothing at all. Do you see it? It's so empty. Can you hold it for me? Do you know this language? Do you know what I mean? I'm not even sure I do anymore. It's okay. It's all gonna be okay. We need to talk. I'm sorry. I'm tired and I'm sorry. No it doesn't matter. It's okay. I just need to get this out. Get out. Please get out. It's not your fault. It's gonna be okay.

I try my best. And they just keep dying slowly. All around me, they're all dying. And I can't seem to make a difference. Why won't they stop dying? Can we just pause life? Please.

What are you looking at? What do you see? Can you help?

It's okay. It's gonna be okay.

~

"He said: Son when you grow up, would you be the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"

My Chemical Romance

Poison

"You came close enough to know my heartbeat but still not close enough for me."
Oscar Isaac

~

These tears lack flow.
This ink is dead.
What have you broken?

This heart shakes
Like yellowish purple foliage
In capricious disquiet.

These words break
Like hollow-hearted smiles
And I can't let you in.

I usually find myself torn between the cosmic orchestra and the abysmal void. This time, though, I'm not stuck. I'm somewhere else. The alchemic lake has dried. The trees of knowledge are naked. But the sky is clear. Always remember that the sky is clear.

You entrust your heart and its blood-flow to someone and you suddenly find yourself waking up to wet, reddened lips.

"So con, convince your mirror, as you've always done before, giving substance to shadows, giving substance evermore." Whatever the poison, it's not really making any difference is it? And no matter how sweet the music, its mysterious remedial force can't stop this internal haemorrhage. And that's okay. I'm okay.

Now take this uninspired garbage and bury it alongside your decapitated principles.

This despair is all I have
And it's not yours to hold
I'm not yours to hold.

This encounter is a delusion,
Boring encrypted mythology.
I'm not here.

This perseverance is an empty shell,
And now I break it into letters.
Everything will change.
Everything will change.

~

"Oh why can't you let go
Like a bird in the snow
This is no place to build your home."
Imagine Dragons

Star

"And I just wanted you to know."

My Chemical Romance

~

An eternal feeling unhesitatingly and continuously screams in the depth of your dark abyss. Echoes bounce off the walls, fueled by a resentment toward the conditions of time and space. It says that it is unconditionally timeless, boundless yet wonders, under its breath, for how long it's been stuck in this hole. 

Some nights are broken, dead and true. Others are tender shattering dew. 

In the midst of noise, words crawl on a sidewalk. It must be really loud in your head, mockingly whispered the abyss. Even your words know there's no way out of here. Is our truth cold enough to puncture that heavy soul you so terribly wish to abandon? Paint the pain upon the brow, disillusioned by delusions, and punch the rain into your eyes, for this is but the world of lies. Like an inherently divided coin, sailing through the cobblestone, I wonder which side fortune will pretend-bury today, as its brother washes away under this dusty broken loan. Alas! Know that hell is not bounded by the red corners of your eyes. And so you must look further and beyond that gaze you distance yourself from - for the deeper you dwell, the closer your home to hell. 

We're in this together, said Heart to Horizon. 

Light music ensued. 

We're in this together, said Mind to Pattern. 

Mute lights fired through. 

Why is no one dancing? The soul wondered. 

I am, echoed Silence. 

But no one heard it. 

So listen. Listen to the shadow dancing in the rain, singing the praises of creation. Listen to your story and everyone else's, for a single thread can only resonate within its web. Listen to the lines hiding in their retinas, the ones their mirrors forget on the other side. Listen, second-most of all, to your silence. 

Some nights are broken, dead and true. Others just never make it through.

When time loses meaning, and you feel that you don't belong in this body, or at least that this planet is not your home, it makes you wonder if it's simply all a dream. Yet you can't help but try to make sense of the contents of your existence. Thus as I attempt to hug you, our feet planted at the center of the bottomless rift of our fractured identity, I find that you are as opaque and immaterial as I am, that this open-ended monologue is a meaningless echo that bounced off all the voices in my head.

I believe the main difference between the suffering individual and the individual whose brilliance is widely recognized is identical to the difference between difference and similarity, because empty space is empty, and because Divine Perspective rules them all.

Some nights are broken, dead and true. And the stars align with your suffering because they want you to be you. 

What about me?

What happens to me when the music is gone? 

How bright will the hour of my star shine when I pass?

How short is the breath to failure? And how deep is the road to contentment?

What about you?

What do you see in the horizon?

And how does silence make you feel?

How do you fill the many blanks between these lines?

And which of the seven versions of you is blinking right now?

Some nights are broken, dead and true. Others bless the divine in you.

~

"One who doesn't know how to dance, says the floor is crooked."

Nepali Proverb

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

Words

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

~

The words can't flow because they're drowning.

And so I hide the cracks in my soul with these whispers of the metaphoric sand that carries your scent.

And they can't flow because people made of sand once lost all their words to the sea. And yet each time you place your hand on my skin, I find my dusty soul floating across the waters, like fireworks melting into constellations because of that slight magical shiver at the edge of your fingers.

And now my eyes are this quill of chaos with waves of heartbeats as their ink. And the words still can't flow because I'm drowning on the surface of this heavenly universe you enclose with a blink, because I fall deeper and deeper every time we lock eyes and I can't look away.

So here, at sunrise, are daydreams, and you, daydreams of you. And there, at the edge of nightfall, I am the night that's falling in love with you.

And thus, the quill, it spirals down the ocean, spelling your name in breathless bubbles, wondering if this is all a hopeless dream. Yet, what are dreams when my soul is building an underwater sandcastle with yours? And what are hopes when I have your hand in mine?

[...]

We build and break and fall, then tell stories to ourselves about the mysterious beauty of it all. But I know that these words are but a distorted memory engraved in the record of skipped beats and words unsaid, swallowed breaths and sighs unread. But next come the words that kill, beyond my darkest corner, in that old pain within me moving still. Next come the words that kill, temporarily scattered in disfigured letters floating atop the sea of untold tragedies I bury in my mind. Next come the words that kill, and I can't arrange those letters and read what they have to say because I know that they'll tell me that my heart is dead. They'll tell me that my heart was nice but now it's dead and that no metaphor in the world can't bring it back.

So what are you doing?
What are you doing and why are you walking next to the sea I never told anyone about?
What are you doing and why are you here?

[...]

In this world, you're either broken, dead or insane. And deep inside, no matter which one - or two - you are, there are words that could change you, words that could tear you apart and words that could bring you back anew. And they usually don't flow because they pity your existence and they don't want to flood it into void. Mine couldn't flow because I hid them in the nonexistent layer between your heart and my empty chest when we first hugged.

But I guess your heart rearranged the letters for me.

So next come the words that kill, faintly beating still,

Some things are meant to be.

~

“We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.” 

Neil Gaiman