The Physics of a Disease.

 

Watching you trying to talk like a normal person, this is what makes my day. You say you’re trying to read me. But you don’t know the words and letters that I keep hidden in the black of my eyes. You think you see through me. But what you don’t realize is that there’s a drama behind the curtain in the back of my head. You try to sing me to sleep but the lullaby isn’t enough for the voices that yell out the dialogues. What do you know? Do you know what I’m made of? You don’t even know yourself.
You think you’re wiping my tears but do you know that your claws are scarring my face for life? Your words poison the very air around me. So stay away. You’re not me. And I’m definitely not you. Did you not ask for a stone to break yourself with?
Here it is.
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The Future Is Blind.

The abyss is an amazing thing to look at. You don’t know if it’s staring back at you, right in the eye. You don’t know if it is so close to you that you’re breathing what it breathes. You have no idea if it’s a world full of dancing colors and beautiful rains. Or whether it’s full of torture and pain and heartaches. The abyss is this. The violent. The calm and peace. The beauty. All that is unknown.

Journeys.

You move, you settle down further, with each little shake. Your knee gets comfortable under  someone else’s. Your shoulder embraces another’s. Sometimes you borrow the headlines and use your glasses to see the printed letters. There could be hot cups of coffee and tea and oily snacks that smell nice. But you keep moving. You slowly melt into the crowd. The soft rocking and the lullaby weakens you. All you want to do is stay down and die a temporary peaceful death. 

Cameraderie.

Oftentimes I wonder if someone zooms a camera in and out of my face. A strange feeling as though someone is watching my life as some entertaining movie. Now, they’re not watching out for me. They’re just there, watching. Your pain, your dreamy spasms, your heart beating, the smiles on the corners of your lips. Are they directing your movie too?

The Curator.

This bleak color is what life looks like.

Sometimes such a blur, that you need a reading glass.

Sometimes so crisp that your head aches.

This color, it never runs. Nor does it run out.

There might be the smell of roses watered with alcohol.

 There might be just that thin sliver of shining silvery goodness up in the sky. 

Stars hanging onto a million tiny dark hooks. 

Clouds floating in smoke. 

Sometimes the angels cry. 

Sometimes the heartaches melt in that one rain.

But it’s summer almost everyday here. 

Summer throughout the year, at times. 

Even the needle sweats inside the clock to move.

But time passes. 

It passes without questions or answers. 

This bleak color will never disappear as long as there are doubts and questions.

You are the answer.

But you always, always, look only into that broken mirror.