You left a fire down inside of me, wild and unattended, to burn hot and alone until the embers die and the smokes fade, along with any hope of a love like ours again. Once warm but now toxic, you’re all that this smoldering heart knew. The firestarter. The burning desire. The reason I will never love again.
What I’m used to is long days in empty rooms and people five feet away and conversations that end with that smile like, I’m safe with this. Took nothing, learnt nothing, gave nothing away, tried and tested, said it all before, so have you. Tell me all about that new air freshener you got for your car and what you had for tea last night and the shitty sexist piece of crap movie you saw this weekend I’m really interested I swear. I swear, I swear I always fucking swear it’s the most I dare do.
What I’m used to is stranded, like the road from my house is a way out but it’s full of dead men and barred by metal monsters and the only escape route is Trojan horse so stranded. Most days, stranded, most places stranded and living off scraps on an island full of people who like their own space, keep to themselves.
I mean I lie for a living and I hate it because my dream is to lie for a living, art you know. Lie lie lie truth lie, selling exterior home improvements works the same because I want to write how I feel, some truth about how I feel but it comes out obscene and the price of these windows, it’s obscene. You have to wrap it up nice, go in with the three for two and the existing customer discount and the ninety six hour sale and the working in your local area for a limited time only bullshit. Push it push it, sit lying on the phone all day, get pissed off the moment someone calls your out on it, say, “Some people are so fucking rude”. I go to work, get on the phone, sell a conservatory. I come home and I write and I sell myself.
And I’m not used to fingers on my spine and I’m not used to five feet closer. And I want to write you poetry but poetry is just metaphors and shopping lists of chiseled out contradicting feelings; you make me happy and sad, hot and cold, alive and dead and none of that gets close and no metaphor applies and it’s too soon for poetry. And too soon is what? Time and the talking you fit in that time? Taking time and sitting on the train with my eye on the time, hands shaking, right up there on the richter scale, we’ll see each other soon.
How Music Set the Stage For My Poetry
One of the very few things I can thank my father for, is for constantly playing wonderful music around me. I grew up listening to the greatest bands of the 20th century. When I was a little girl taking all of these songs in, they left a yearning in my heart for adventure, I knew I was meant to travel and explore everything. There was something awakened in me that I didn’t understand, not until the last few years. In the mornings, Crosby Stills and Nash and Simon and Garfunkel would pep me up. When we took drives he would blast Rush with the windows open, no other band has ever filled me with such a sense of adventure, their song “The Analog Kid” made my soul start to beat at the inside of my chest when I was seven years old, I longed to be like the boy in the grass, ignoring the calls from his mother and just rolling his baseball cap down after the hawk swished by, in the hot and windy August. And Pink Floyd came out at night, and my mind tried to piece all the lyrics and songs with their other songs, I knew they were a puzzle. Comfortably Numb struck so deeply within me, it was terrifying how much it made me ache, this song is what got me interested in psychology. Pink Floyd point blank started an obsession with the human brain, how it works, the flaws and illnesses it carries within the cracks. I learned their album The Wall by heart at age 12, it made me cry for hours. It planted a huge amount of empathy in my heart. Basically, Pink Floyd and Rush are what kept me going when I was younger, they helped me learn things at an early age, and helped me understand and know for a fact that poetry is what I want to do with my life. I can’t say too many positive things about my father, an abuser and sociopath with no real love for anyone but himself, but he played so much great music all the time, every good band you can imagine, so I memorized them, became interested in words, in adventure. He ruined my life, but also sort of saved it with music. I don’t know how I feel about that.
Ways in which I am sensitive:
- If you call me ugly, I will try hard to look nice for you. If you call me pretty, I will try even harder to look even nicer for you.
- If I see you smirking when you’re sad, I’ll wonder if your father used to drink and drive with you in the backseat.
- If I see you tapping both your feet through the entire eating disorder unit in our health class, I will wonder if you’re trying to burn more calories.
- If you tap my shoulder or brush my arm, I will feel much more a part of the world until the class period ends.
- If you say something funny as we leave sixth hour chemistry class, I’ll hold onto the stupid grin you gave me until someone takes it away.
- If I see a flower between sidewalk cracks, I will whisper wind between its petals because I’m a wilting wallflower, and I need to talk to somebody who really understands.
- If I see jagged cuts in the gaps between the layered bracelets you always wear, I will be especially sweet to you, and when it’s just you and me at the end of the day because we both take forever to pack our bags, I will let my sleeve drift up my arm to let you know you’re not alone.
Excerpt from my novel
Yes, I actually do things besides roleplay; here’s a snippet from one of my current works in progress: Johnny Faust, in which a young man with incredibly bad luck learns that he is actually the host of the infamous sorcerer Dr. Johann Faust, that Heaven and Hell are in fierce competition for Faust’s soul… and that neither of them care too much what happens to Johnny himself.
The Concert Pianist.
Backstage there is a nervousness that cascades like sweat, his eyebrows - they’re soaked with the adoration of the many, but the knowing of the few. Who will he allow to slip into the undertow of his beautiful mind? There are music notes in constant collision, they sooth his aching bones, so brittle from years of stage diving, and would-be heart-strung erosion. Who is he calling out to?
Her fingers, they dance, and prance along the meadows of his piano keys. - Light/Dark. Light/Dark. - Opposite’s attract, and in this case her fingers are have no intention of coming back, the piano strings - they roar with furious anger, and the vengeance of a hundred red-headed step children, so mercilessly locked under the stairs. There is music suffocating the air, and if you don’t stop - if you don’t look, and listen, well let me tell you my dear…you will be lost in the constant hustle, and bustle of this monotone shuffle.
Youth, well it brought tender emotions, a swing band, and pretty girl hanging by the arm of his hand, hair so slicked back and his shoes, she loved to use them as little mirrors to smear her ruby red lipstick about her pretty pastel face. There is applause in the air tonight, and they have no way of knowing that this is his final fight. The title is up for grabs, and he’s fully intent to bow out, and live by the land. - Light/Dark. Light/Dark…Light…Dark. - His fingers project something new, and he casts his gaze into the darkness, but who…who is he calling out to?
Just to the right of center stage, there she stands, with the light shinning just past her aged, wrinkled hands. The pretty pastel girl he once knew, her lips, well they aren’t ruby red anymore, it’s no matter, whatever color she wears - it’s the best. She waits for him, until his time is through, as he finishes his swan song, he takes his bow, and walks off to a thunderous haze. He takes her hand, hearts linked together by their gold dust wedding bands. Their age has finally met the stage, as the clouds burst, they know they can finally rest their weary heads, they no longer need to expect the worst.
It’s 3:34 in the morning and I should be sleeping, but instead I’m going to write about love.
Love is a dangerous ploy. It’s a trend found in all parts of society set to be the epitome of excellence in existence. Love is what we all strive for, what we all want and need.
This is a very bad thing.
Why is it bad? Because not everyone will find love. And some will think they have when they have not. And, still, some will rush to find it when, in all actuality, it is not—I repeat, not—-the most paramount thing that we have been taught it is. Love is fantastic, unequivocal, and unequaled. But it is not everything. Too many people go though life with disappointment thinking their life is unfulfilled until they find that one true love. Their focus becomes blinded by a love they haven’t even experienced yet—or sometimes have already lost—and they lose meaning in everything else. Careers, families, hobbies, and friends can all take a back seat to this one principal goal that society has tricked them into believing makes them who they are when, in reality, they are already perfect human beings. Love is not life; it is a part of the experience, but no more important in the grand scheme of things than your first rollercoaster experience. And like that rollercoaster, love will come with highs and lows and, sadly, ends a lot of times. But the end of a ride is not the end of everything.
I hate that lives are rated based off of love. Love is a personal piece between two people and creating this sense of incompleteness only helps to strengthen the paradigm that brings so much sadness to those of us left alone. Loveless is not broken. You are a complete person without.
I’ve wrapped myself up so tightly in the life I want that I’ve forgotten that I need to live. It’s impossible to focus on me, be the things and the person that I want to be…if I keep myself wrapped up in temporary insanity. You are my drug and you have sustained me…fueled me…for so long now, that to imagine an existence without you present brings me to my knees. Air is thick and sticky and impossible to breathe without you here with me. The pieces of my heart are like shrapnel, scattered in the wind. I am everywhere because everywhere I am is everywhere that WE have been.
I cannot open my eyes without things reminding me of you. Of US. And I’d gladly go blind to cure it, but it’s not just my sight…all of my senses have betrayed me. I smell you in my clothes and my pillow. Your scent even lingers in the ridges of my fingerprints and in the ink that bleeds from my pen. Each song that I hear, I know I’ve sung with you. They are all part of our soundtrack and they haunt me. In my car, on television, the radio, and especially in my dreams. I see you all over. I see you sprawled in my head, just like you were not too long ago. I see you in the clothes that I wear because there isn’t anything that I can put on that you haven’t taken off. And the part that really hurts is that I can’t stop seeing you in my future. You’re in the home that I want and vacations I dream of. You’re with me every time I close my eyes and every time that I open them and I don’t know how to escape…or if I really want to.
(I just found this in a notebook. I wrote it 2/29/2012 but it feels so relevant today as well.)
A hum filled the Langham’s grand ballroom, as its vaulted chambers filled with a sea of influential figures, who hailed from all variety of fields. They had flocked here for a charity benefit held by Beatrice Steele, an esteemed socialite whose humanitarian agenda was even less genuine than the altruism every guest boasted of.
Schubert felt like a vegan locked in a slaughterhouse. The crowd grunted and cawed, heaving in self-important chatter as they carved their clumsy knives. For the evening was rife with backstabbing deceit, and so clear was this to Schubert that they may as well have all been forming queues to disembowel one another, right there on the ballroom floor. He heard his name and, wilting inside, turned to face his harasser. It happened to be the voraciously enterprising Felicity Mire. She had recently inherited her father’s wealth, a fact that was yet to sink in, as evident by the smile stretched painfully across her cheeks.
“Mr. Fearfield, how are you? So wonderful to meet with you in happier climes!” The words fell from her mouth in a mix of respect and embarrassment, for Schubert detected the wavering masque that covered her still-tender grievance. The funeral had been a farcical affair. One final embarrassment for Malcolm, one final degrading that followed the months of familial warfare preceding his end. This greedy wench probably ushered poor Malcolm off even quicker, he thought. A rogue journalist had infiltrated the reception, sparking Felicity’s urge to wield her newly-ordained power. Her raucous act had failed, and she had been unaware of the scandalous atom bomb that graced the writer’s memory stick. Seconds later, pictures of her bodily ambition had begun flashing across the wall, overlapping portraits of her grinning father.
“The pleasure is mine, Felicity! If only Malcolm could see you now, his little girl, at the helm of his ship! A veritable Mire, for certain!” He beamed at her, with feeble hope that just one sliver of his impeccable conduct might contribute to her immature acumen.
“He always spoke highly of you, Mr. Fearfield. Right to the end.”
“Please, please! Call me Schubert.” She continued to talk, spurred on by new familiarity, but Schubert’s concentration was diverted by a most unmistakeable leer, a look of pure lechery owned by the vapid Kinkade, who had just loped into proximity.
“Found time to grace us rodents, then?” Kinkade quipped. Schubert recognised him as a cheap imitation, one that had fallen from the storeroom shelf a few too many times. Schubert was used to the sensation of being copied; it had been a double-edged affliction of his for longer than he cared to remember. But he was less than flattered by Kinkade’s impersonation.
A lazy and spiritless jeweller, Kinkade had harboured resentment ever since Schubert’s public mockery of his proposition for partnership. He shifted substandard stones for a quick margin, and was fuelled by ambition alone. He held no regard for refined jewelling, a fact that Schubert had conveyed openly, and with zest, for the thought of association with Kinkade made him shudder. How sad it is, thought Schubert, that the level of grease that leaked from a man’s face did not equate to greatness - for then he would bow to Kinkade - but his glistening visage was anything but. Kinkade was laughing, though Schubert was unsure as to what exactly could be so funny about basking in one’s inadequacy. His babble, as usual, was near incoherent, or maybe Schubert simply did not care. Some fractured ramble about inferior stones, no doubt. Schubert’s eyes darted to find a distraction.
He was saved by the gracious Lady Florentine who, in all her forced flamboyance, had twirled across the mezzanine to greet him. But the sight of her bulbous approach had instilled a sheer repugnance in Schubert’sstomach, for her figure within the dress was rather reminiscent of squeezing raw chicken breast within his fist.
“My Schubert, my Schubert, how are you my dear?” She lapped her lips, surveying him with hungered eyes. She held out a hand, which bulged beneath an ambitious glove, and Schubert stooped. Even in the wake of her protruding presence, Lady Florentine garnered his respect. She, like he, was quite aware of the aristocracy’s underlying design. She flitted between the layers of orchestrated benevolence, meeting him on many of those levels, for she was one of the few to rise above the dirge of upper-class lies. She was a bounty, certainly, a treasure amidst these fools who flounced in golden shambles. He tightened his stomach regardless, to hold back bile as he planted his lips on her trotter.
“Have you any new fancies for me to pore over? I acquired a new piece actually, recently, yes, an amulet from Mr. Kinkade, cast in obsidian, it is!” She flashed Schubert her trinkets, but upon mention of Kinkade her gabble was deflected by uncaring ear, as Schubert’s focus averted instead to the incredible crossbeam allocation of the Langham’s Edwardian rafters.
For Schubert’sbrain declined to operate within accepted norms, and instead of paying amities to his ballooning host, his mind was charting all variables of social venation, mapping the behavioural data gleaned from the hollow whimsicalities around him. The estranged dance of discourse between unwilling strangers, the cunning glances and hungered gaze of secret sweethearts, the squealing swarms of fat tycoons who beat their chests in fiscal showmanship. There may as well have been a secondary lens imposed upon Schubert’s perspective, an ever-shifting palimpsest, which annotated this cordial swarm.
He moved through endless circles, increasing in speed, as consideration of leaving grew more attractive with each second. Guests hurled him words from every direction, in hopes to ensnare his attention.
“It’s the great Schubert Fearfield!”
“Master of the diamond-forge, he is!”
“The Adonis of business, that’s what they say!” Schubert shook his head, amazed by the unfounded hilarities that graced his ear each day. He preferred to maintain distance from the excess of false pretence that this society gorged upon, for tempting as it may have been to immerse oneself in praise, such allure paved a one-way path to the soiree of self-worship. And even so, Schubert needed no recognition to assure himself of superior worth. His reputation had been sublimely crafted, an intricate network that now flourished following decades of kissing the correct posteriors, while shunning those whose name had been blackened.
His thoughts were hampered by the intrusive discourse of Ernest Kind, a particularly rotund critic whose eyes had surveyed a million artworks, but never himself in a mirror. He was stood before a magnificent portrait of the Langham’s proprietor, the venerable Duchess Smallhand, and was surrounded by guests who fought in their ranks to catch his every word. Schubert slipped his ear into reach, in hope that a little unintentional irony would lighten his volatile mood.
“… haphazard strokes, an overly muted palette, she is an abomination to my sculpted eye!” His raucous fans exploded in concurrence, casting their own opinions to the dirt. “My friends, I hope you remember this lesson - it is impossible to make a masterpiece of muck!” His disciples clucked in subservient glee, and Schubert was dismayed. How could one remodel their true disposition with each asinine utterance?
Ernest had thrown an acknowledging nod his way, but Schubert declined to return it. Ernest was excited by his presence, as was clearly audible in the exasperated fluctuations of his voice, and Schubert considered whether Ernest was aware that he was a living contradiction.
“And now you know, my friends! If you possess an obscure countenance, you should never commission a hyperrealist!” Schubert’s question had answered itself. The blind appraisal Ernest received spoke tomes of these people’s insanity. There was more deranged laughter, which bought about the unexpected benefit of drowning Ernest’s voice, and Schubert’s mind settled on departure.
He had almost reached the foyer when a hand encroached upon his coat-tail. He spun about, half-expecting some puckering d?utante, or perhaps even a flustered widow whose proposition would be worth mulling. He was, instead, confronted by Kinkade’s off-putting features once more.
“Enjoy the quartz, Fearfield! Enjoy the quartz!”
Schubert shook in disbelief. Always with the inferior gems! He was unable to comprehend the stupidity before him.
“You are a moron Kinkade, and I am no petty crystal bandit!” It was hardly commendable to beat a dead horse, but an evening full of repressed retorts had left Schubert fuming, and he didn’t hold back. “Be gone, Kinkade! Do you not have rings to make for children’s dolls? I am sure their Monopoly money will trump your biggest sale! Perhaps we could have partnered, ha!” Schubert allowed a temporary break in his stony disposition, and expelled a curdled chuckle. “Perhaps we could, if you were a respectable man, but thankfully integrity is one thing that you must be born with.” He left Kinkade in mid-speech and finally reached the exit, ever aware of the stare affixed to his back. Schubert hoped that Kinkade’s admiration did not extend to his retreating rear.
Outside, the street lamps added to the crepuscular light, hurling a bloody glow upon the street. Vibrant oranges permeated Schubert’s sight, and it was all that he could see in the confusion that preceded his realisation. His ears were ravaged by indecipherable sounds, which lashed at his dazed state. His cheek was cold, uncomfortably so, and the pressure exerted upon his skull was most unsettling.
The onlookers had quickly gathered, and now almost every guest stood outside the Langham, watching and whispering, as Schubert Fearfield was held face-down against a police car bonnet. Still disoriented, Schubert gazed out at the crowds. They stared back at him with a strange expression. It a look of disapproval, a look he had all but forgotten. Schubert had worked hard to maintain their pleasantry, whether genuine or not, and had shelved his misanthropic thoughts for many years in cultivating his rapport. But now they mocked him, with pitied eyes.
One face shone brightly amidst the bustling mass. Schubert’s ears had ceased their ringing and as he was ushered into the back seat, he could make sense of the putrid proclamations.
“Behold, your honourable Fearfield! The self-proclaimed king of diamonds! Now you see, my friends, he is the true fraud! A trickster and a criminal, profiting from diamonds that were carved by the bloody hands of tortured children!”
The crowd consumed his every word, for Kinkade seemed to have developed a new air of confidence, a sudden wave of relevance. Something any mortal must enjoy when usurping the gods themselves, Schubert mused. He sat back, shifting his gait to account for his tightly cuffed wrists. The sentence did not bother him, no, his army of legal hounds would bare their teeth at any punishment. But Kinkade’s words cycled through his mind.
Enjoy the quartz, Fearfield! Schubert scoffed. The courts! Such self-indulgent humour was typical of Kinkade’s cretinous being. He peered out from the car one last time, but all he could see was Kinkade’s sneer as new admirers flocked to his side. How fickle, is the turning tide of reputation! The police car struggled to pull away, photographers bouncing against the vehicle as it edged through the crowd, and Schubert squirmed in his seat, clammy in the foreign chill of embarrassment.
From my Creative Writing university module portfolio.
Strumming For Answers
I understand why people learn to play instruments. Sometimes a guitar can convey an emotion better than any lyrics that can be added to it. Lately I’ve found I have lost my voice. I have nothing to write about and when I try, I hate the outcome. I currently have 17 drafts of things I neither hate enough to delete nor like enough to finish. I go through fits of inspiration and right now my inspiration is apparently throwing a fit. It will come back, but who knows when.
I wish I could play an instrument, for times like these. I could change my emotion from thoughts to chords and still express to you what I feel even when I’m not quite sure myself what I want to say. Even an old melody can be replayed in a way words cannot. We may reread our past writings, but they won’t always bring the same feelings and nostalgia that a song can.
But my song doesn’t exist. I live in a world halted by silence. My mind is without a tune to write about and my heart grows heavy with the weight of what I can’t find to say. It’s a strange feeling when you can’t communicate. It’s like trying to describe what a burning sensation feels like. It feels like…burning. Sometimes words just won’t do.
We're All Shook Ones
patient x was a 20 year old beauty with just a bit too much fucking energy. She could barely speak straight, but she moved on the dance floor faster than the lights sliding across the room.
patient y was a 20 year old playboy. He shot people with his finger, killing us all and then himself. When I asked him why his reply was, “cause it’s all a game.” With the cutest smile on his face. We laughed and after that he stopped shooting me when I passed him in the hallway. He wanted to cuddle and I would have but it was against the rules and personally, I was looking to get out, not to lock myself in further and deeper. I could sense that was what he wanted, but what I wanted lingered on the outside of the fence.
patient x was there because she had been raped. She turned herself in, claimed some lies to receive protection because if she returned home she knew she would be the one blamed, even with the blood running down her leg.
patient x wasn’t sick. She was a dancer and she was scared for her life and so she claimed sickness. It was the only way she knew how to receive help. The help she received were pills she neither wanted nor needed, and a bed. A two week stay and then a release back into the wild.
patient y was there as a rebel. A sick and twisted, fucking rebel. Truly he was a kid with a game in his hands, a game every adult was envious, but too pussyish to play. And so they locked him away and forced shots into his body when he refused to stay.
patient xxx was an angel in disguise, Hell’s angel, there because she was forsaken by a lover. Deceit played it’s part in her life story once again, bruised and battered but at least, thank God, this time she was not bleeding. Missing three ribs from one stormy night 20 years ago, she found herself at the grip of another monsters mercy. She was sent to me for protection. She kept me safe when it became my turn to ride helplessly into the throes created by a few mad men.
Patient xxx is my angel and I am no one, a very safe and grateful NO ONE screamin’ I’m just A SHOOK ONE<3
I can vanish. I can close my eyes and I can’t see you, you can’t see me. I can close my throat and put everything I’d say somewhere else and you can’t stop me, you can’t see me. I can watch the world end and I can fire it up again, I can be the girl with the power of God on her eyelids, I can shut you out, I can stop this. I should.
You shouldn’t talk about love. There’s no need to tell the world how it feels and what it means and why it matters. How old it is, how long it’s festered inside of you and how it hurts and why you’ve wanted it so badly and what that’s like - getting a thing you’ve always wanted, how it matches up. I shouldn’t listen to a word you say, I shouldn’t watch your face as you say it, I shouldn’t let you stay.
I’m not sure when it happened, or where I was, or how…but at some point, your scent became a security blanket for me. I wish I’d known when it was happening or that it was going to happen, because I would have stopped it. Now I crave it. I crave it when the wind blows, when the sky rains, and when the days are stormy. I crave it like an alcoholic at AA on a Saturday night.
memoirs of a demi-god (2)
((After being captured by the Roman army, Illis devises escape. But the Romans may have captured his father, the chief of his clan. This one is…sad. It’s short.))
“I fought with all my might. But everyone loses a few battles.” -Illis
We’ll start with the house, which was large. Three staircases deep and so long all of us who worked there had ox strong legs and I had strong arms too, I could walk on my hands and sometimes, when no one was around, I would, I’d tickle the carpet with my fingers because it felt like we were in the belly of a whale and I wondered if he’d sneeze us out.
So the house was big and it was old and it was dry like old things are, like a leaf that’s kept together by the bones and has to be handled carefully because it’s so old, so old and dry and precious. We spent more of the day tending to the house than the people, who were only pieces of proud, high furniture, with ancestral rights to a place there. In need of constant reassurance that the house belonged to them when the truth was the opposite.
I lived in the belly of the whale for eight years, longer than Jonah and Gepetto and I liked it, for the most part. I liked the entrance hall in the mornings, when the light filled it like water fills a pot. I liked the routine, I liked having a job I could learn like lines, learn by heart. I liked the kitchens, I liked the drama, I liked a large group of people trapped in one huge house and acting out their lives like the house was a stage, like the world was listening, like their lives were a story to tell and to scream and to sing. I felt safe there - there were two worlds and the world of the house, it was just as real and exciting but it was safer than the other world, which couldn’t get in, couldn’t get at us. I stayed there as long as I could, I was sad to leave, but I never had love there. It was all arms and no heart; being handled but not held. Love came after the house.
die as a tree girl, or in the sea.
DEAR LORD this is the first piece of prose i have literally written in SIX FUCKING YEARS. so go easy on me this time.
at times i wish i could stop still; breathing like a tree. feel the oxygen receding in and out of my skin. i wish i could still be considered green. but each year i lose more and more of that fresh innocence once had so new. i grow harder and harder inside. adding rings for accomplishments, for sorrows i bore and still am bearing, for decisions i made. it is in this system that one can calculate my real age.
i wander through this world as the drowning girl at sea, just begging to find land and soil to collapse upon. and i wonder when it is that i will finally be free. i have heard so many responses. my dear friend franz kafka would say there is no life after, just knowledge and thus fated to remain alone. His Holiness says it’s in the quest for enlightenment, the circle turns with lives until nirvana lifts you up, and suffering ceases to exist. my mother says it’s when she is with her children, and Father Terry says it’s when we are cleansed of our sins, rising souls find st. peter standing at heaven’s gates with the mythical key. and zooey glass would most certainly say it’s when we lay in bags as dead as leaves.
so i guess i will just stand here in my own comfortable corner, waiting for my own personal escape to make itself known to these eyes searching always.
for when i can finally know the meaning of life.
i need to lie down for a minute here
Sometimes you get that feeling in your chest…like there’s an all-consuming black hole vortex sucking you inside of yourself. And no matter how much you want it to go away the more you resist, the more you feel yourself falling in. And before you know it you can feel it in your throat and you know that everything you’ve ever wanted to say is being pulled back down your esophagus and into that vortex and you’re going to be lost forever and the things you need to say - no, need to shout - are going to be silenced. You lay down on your bed and let your palm lie flush against your thinned cotton shirt as you stare wide-eyed at the crumbling ceiling tiles listening to the voice of your inner monologue tell you, “This is your end. You’re going to die right here. Just stop breathing because the hole is going to pull your breath away. And no one. Will. Ever. Know.”
Other times you have that feeling in your chest…like there’s tidal wave getting ready to come ashore and completely consume your body. And it’s fluttery and powerful and has that salty tinge to its scent that reminds you of your childhood but with an added sense of appreciation to the sting it leaves in your nostrils. And you can feel the currents rippling through your limbs as you lie on your bed smiling to yourself knowing the things that your mind is capable of. You indulge yourself in the memory that causes you to smile and do that squinty thing with your eyes as you bite your bottom lip. You let the wave crash over your skin and consume you and become completely selfish in that moment, destroying all of the other thoughts that were trying to live on unstable foundations as the one sweeps over them all.
And sometimes all it takes is the dilation of your pupils as you catch the scent you were searching for to signal one or the other. Sometimes at the beginning you don’t know whether you’re getting black hole or tidal wave, but regardless, you lay down and wait in the limbo of the unknown for some other person to completely consume your heart.