It matters less at the end of every night, this feigned deliberation of purpose, of an attempt at multitudes, of a forced lightness of being. The melodrama of yesterday dissipates in the romantic chill of those memorable evenings, and everything therein. The hour hand ticks forward without approval, and it all goes and goes and goes. Space is shrinking, the physical and emotional air becoming consumptive. A desperate sense of helplessness floats in the room, gnawing at heartstrings, beckoning for forgiveness while half-truths continue trickling in. Mind over matter, to be tortured in short order. Sense and sanity hold less meaning as the days go by. Dance in and around, away and back again. At what point do I succumb, and at what point do I settle into myself?
Life is pain,
the grace of a quiet moment,
a sentiment laid bare,
your hand in mine,
lain under the shade of orange green leaves,
the spots of sunlight flickering like diamonds across our skin,
the birdsong undulating around us,
here in this perfect equilibrium,
where things grow and remain in motion,
as we lie amidst the harmony.
I know my corner well, where the darkness veils just enough to make it welcoming but not isolated. Yet you have tainted this dreamspace, my abode of late. You came in with your dirty feet and tarnished my minute trappings, ripping my small works of art into shreds, demanding I confess to my wrongdoing. I have done no wrong except in acknowledging you for who you were not. I have known much misery by you, have known sadnesses a thousand feet deep in the blackness of the ocean. My melancholy siphons from one vein to another, flowing through the circuitry of my being, molding what I have become. I wish these sentiments on no one, as none deserves such wretchedness, such tightening of happiness. You are a cruel and dirisive being. May you find chaos in your hubris. There is no love left to share with you, for you have misused me too many times to bear. My heart has run dry, and I wish nothing but turmoil in your shortfalls. Perhaps somewhere at the end of your time you may find the acute and immeasurable pangs of self awareness dawn on every reprehensible fiber of your existence and only then may you go in a silent but fleeting moment of quietus. May your trappings haunt you like a disinterested ghost. You have no home here. Be gone before I set the wolves on you once more.
Shine in your pitfalls,
wander in your love,
give purpose to your confusion,
revel in your whims,
do this all in the confines of your desires only,
fashion yourself after your goddesses,
shape your thoughts to the wisdom of your wisewomen,
take not from the piles of uniform production,
not from the idle clouds of murky uniformity,
never from those who are all veneer and no heart,
remember to stay far from the fields of machina,
that whose coats gleam untarnished under the sun,
they will hinder your journey north,
follow the worn roads and walk beneath the sentinel boughs,
stay the path and move forward always,
you are more than you were yesterday.
I wonder stupidly if you’d still love me after my run around the world and back to you, at the end of the line. If because of my innate selfishness I shied away from sharing myself with you, I backed out and away to work on other things and realized that I liked being alone, that despite my capacity to love, I have a greater capacity to suffer. That no matter how many times you show up I want to give you the universe and yet show nothing for it because I’m the end result of subtle mistreatment, of pervasive dysfunction. I’ve resided there long, I’ve seen the world to know what the reality is and here I am preserving my sanity. You’re the casualty. I don’t want to give you the universe because I want it for myself. I wonder how you could love these heavy bones when there is so much suffering in the world. How could you concentrate on us when there are others. All this noise and nothing but the pain of distance and withdrawal, of slow heartbreak. I wonder of the ease of waiting for the plane to bring me up into the clouds and over the grid and back to this soothing and dark pool of illusion, of my continuing delusion. Somewhere in the distance, you’re waiting for me but if I look back, I’m lost.