Heartbeat

It gets hotter every day in the world. Deplorable, unspeakable atrocities happen every day. Every day is a new day and brings with it apprehension and anxiety to get through it with some insignificant, for the most part, tasks at hand awaiting execution. Sometimes the image projected in my mind of this world and everything around is so real I am lost in it entirely. To fail here would be to fail entirely.

But there is another image, another world in my mind, that isn’t reflected in the papers, or in the meaningless, for the most part, chatters that takes place in coffee houses and drawing rooms. Here I see myself restraining myself from flying while trying to walk. I skate on a conveyer belt spread across the city in wild swooping loops and turns, winding my way around the bleak, dark orange streets and buildings. People, we talk sometimes. Sometimes we make little sense. I see submission and control. Frantic I run around to have my voice heard to let them know, to find a way to make it real. Rats. There are fat rats everywhere. We need to hole in. Can you hear them? There are voices in my head. They speak in urgent, mechanical tones, the urgency and volume increasing exponentially. I run to my parents’ room and lie at their feet. I am safe now.

I am older. They are screaming in my head, and I know you can’t hear them. They are not real. Not for you. They are all me. I am screaming in my head. I get all of us together and we sit around and we scream and scream and scream. There are no relations. Only me and my screaming selves.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s the madness that comes with believing in the first image of the mind. Perhaps what really drives us crazy is that they make us believe there is something beyond what we can touch and see and hear. We can feel things that we can’t see or hear. That there is something called love that is unconditional. And we are sent on a wild goose chase to seek out that feeling and capture it. To decorate it in our minds and hearts like garlands made of fresh flowers. The hot scent of these flowers and the sharp overpowering colors would intoxicate us and keep us in a state of utter oblivion until that gentle nothingness breezed through to make us one with the earth.

I love my dreams. If for nothing else, the pure intensity of emotions is enough to validate my existence in this world. Sometimes it is better to leave our demons raging through our minds. To protect them from the people who seek to define you as they see fit. Seek to embrace our crazed complex convictions about us and the world.

Through the looking glass I look and I see them, and they see me.

We talk but we don’t hear a thing.

I see them, and they see me.

Let’s Talk

Tell me of Love.

Tell me of Freedom.

Tell me of unsuppressed laughter, like the whimsy sea breeze.

But first,

Look at the contempt in a Mother’s eyes.

Feel the Grip around your throat.

Find the screen that stops the breeze short of your skin.

See the colors that have drained from this world.

Then we’ll talk.

The Deep, the Blue and the Empty

I am so angry. I am so angry

I don’t want to sit here and be pragmatic about the pickle I’m in. Philosophize about how one day, these couple of years of seeming waste will not look so major any more. It will all be trivial and fit in with the rest of my life. NO!

I want to be petty and angry. I want to scream at God and tell him to change things. I want to ask him why it was necessary to bury me inside myself. Rhetorical question, God. I don’t want an explanation or an excuse. I just want you to make it better. ‘Why?’ is a question we ask even though we know nothing could change what has come and gone. The reasons seldom matter.

I am angry and I am exhausted. I need respite, I need relief. I need to be able to be myself again. To find myself. What a waste to be living most of your life only so we can find ourselves, when if we started our lives from that point of self-realization who knows what heights we could be touching.

The simple joys of innocence that people can’t understand in a grown person. It takes a strong adult-child to let themselves be just that despite the criticism against overwhelming positivity and confidence.

I guess I should let the waves wash over me, descending slowly into the depths wherein there is peace somewhere. A translucent jelly fish content to not holding its own, but being led by the flow of the water in the darkness.

Let. Go.

Must be a Full Moon

Even as I see myself spiral down this tunnel, I hope when I hit the ground I see the light from another little tunnel to crawl up into. Is there no end to this ridiculous hope that just sneaks up and squeezes in like some abominably overenthusiastic person getting on an overstuffed elevator who just can’t care to sense the air, more precisely, the already cramped vestibule stuffy with sweaty, uncomfortable strangers pressed against each other. So, yeah this Hope or Delusion, whatever it is, worms its way in and curls up somewhere quietly and as I write depressing little passages and doodle morbid little cartoons, unbeknownst to me It is weaving tiny little rows of picket fences and bright smiles in happy rooms. It makes new rules that break all the rules, that say you don’t need to please everyone, that it is possible to find happiness even when you don’t believe in it anymore, at least not for your self. You see it is a defense mechanism perhaps, convincing yourself its really not worth the money, when the truth is you’ve never even tasted sushi. ‘But, I wouldn’t buy it even if I could afford it! Really.’
Yeah.
I believe you.
That’s the sad part I was afraid of.
To be cheated out of life is a tragedy perhaps, but to reject it ’cause you never had any better, what do you call that? The human condition?

You took it so far, that the cover that was their only to protect you against the sun, became your face when night fell and the stars came out.

*Howl*

Tiny Little Nobody

I have never done anything worth doing.

I am dying slowly.

There are no words in my brain.

No poetry, no rhythm.

There is only this vast expanse of rolling nothingness and hollow emptiness growing in rough patches between drying trickles of brain juice and whatever constitutes life.

I have never lived outside this place. This barren desert full of empty dreams of countless encounters, infinite conversations, and innumerable little anecdotes. All the things that never happened. That wonderful mirage that exists only to deceive, to disperse the gritty harshness of this boundless cage. I have never cried for another. I cried for myself when I cried for others. I know now, I saw a chance at change for me in them, so I cried for myself when I cried for them.

The more I lay still the more death takes over. It is creeping up from behind like a slithering dragon, hissing and flicking his tongue at me. I know he is there I can feel him. His shadow ties him to me and I can’t move. All that I was ever going to be is draining. Slowly, quietly.

Death is noiseless.

As all my faculties leak out like they were never there I make feeble attempts to grasp onto something and I catch nothing. It was never there because it isn’t there now.

You will never be anything other than this. Some live to achieve something. Some live to serve as a background of those achievements. You are important. But you are only the backdrop. Resign yourself to this fate. Don’t struggle between the rocks as you try to rush through the waters, looking for fresh blood, shredding flesh. You move to wash away that conscience, you swim away from your shadow, everything that binds you to a life, a sequence of events that make you who you are. You will never be free, these demons will weigh you down. You will drag yourself through the blue and you will die trapped between two nothings. Slowly and painfully.

Somethings are just made pointless, they serve to remind us that we will never know all.

Tiny little Pointless who lives with Twisted and Pathetic.

Three little pieces that make a tiny little town.

Tiny little shops, tiny little houses, tiny little dreams.

Tiny little hands and tiny little feet.

Are swallowed by Not So Tiny

Now they can be happy.

The Corridor

I’m in a long narrow corridor, not unlike ones at hotels, only narrower and longer. There are doors on either side, there are doors everywhere. I turn and open a door and its as if nothing has changed. An infinite corridor with doors on either side. It isn’t entirely quiet either. But I can’t hear anything. I can feel life, buzzing somewhere close, perhaps in a mass of corridors nearby. It is probable that mass of corridors does not link into this one, anywhere or anyhow. Nevertheless, this place isn’t empty either. It is well-lit, it is carpeted, it smells good, was that a shadow of a person that just flashed past? Every door I open seems to have more doors to offer. I don’t want to open another door. I don’t want to see more doors. When I open a door I want to see something else. I have never seen a room before. Not that I can remember. My memory starts from where this story does. So I have never seen anything that was not a corridor with doors on either side. I never find my way back to the corridor I started in, but I have no way of knowing if this is true. If I expected to see similar corridors all my life, would I stop opening doors? Because I don’t stop. I open another  door. I never open consecutive doors. Not yet, no. Desperate people do that, crazy people, frantic people. People looking for something, people who know what they are looking for. People who come back into the same corridor. I never turn back. I go forward. Is it because I am lost? No I am not lost. I would be lost if I tried to find a certain corridor. But I’m just looking around. Am I tired? No, that is a sign of weakness. I am going to discover something and until then I will keep looking. Do I want this to end? What if the corridor, one of them, ends in a room? Then I would have to stay or turn around, if I turn around I will be lost, If I stay I will essentially be at a Dead end.

So am I looking for a Dead end or trying to get Lost?

Something

I remember something,

just not enough,

To merit in words.

Just a thought,

a warm hand,

and sad eyes.

I remember something,

Incomplete thoughts;

floating in bubbles.

Side by side.

Afraid to touch,

and burst.

In a dream or another life,

I remember something;

Just not enough,

to let you know.

I remember something,

But not enough,

to say I felt,

something.

Tags: Amnesia, Numbness, Poetry, Sorrow