Fascinating, Beguiling, Strange

An image, fragile, unfocused, but endlessly fascinating - that is all I see of you. You are made up of colours and thoughts and movements, disappearing moments and never fading memories, and yet I know none of them. What lies beneath the surface of your pale skin? I would like to learn. Would you let me? Perhaps.

I see you sometimes, so distant, and wonder, if looking up, you ever see me. Further, and if you do, what is it you think? Do you think anything at all? Do birds in a flock ever consider one another beyond the strangeness of their belonging to the same family? The thought fascinates me, beckons me, yet beguiles me when it yields no answers. I shall pass the days wondering, and cherishing a small hope that I may learn the answers, and that the answers are of a positive nature.

The Stars and Our Tragedies

There aren't words that you can find, however much you scramble after them, that will alter our opinions of you. Words are meaningless without the intention behind them; attitude is all that matters. And while we have our sights set on the horizon, on the stars, those pinpricks in the universe, yours are on the ground, staring at your feet. You cannot progress, you cannot grow, when you dare not look ahead, further out from the thoughts inside your own head. That is why you are always going to think the things you do, and see the things you see.

Yet, why is that those who see the least are confident the most? It must be that the less you know, the bigger you feel in the world. Is it a paradox of the curious, the intelligent, that we must always feel insignificant with our knowledge, while those who know nothing try to convince us with their ignorance? Another tragedy to add to the list that we keep in the pocket by our hearts.

We must keep in mind that while we are weighed down by those tragedies, we are also uplifted by them. For we are they who shall leap for the stars while the rest of them, the blind, are unable to fathom the courage to do the thing which will shatter their perception of the world. Ignorance for them shall be their downfall. And the greatest tragedy of all is that they shall never know it.

We All Shiver in the Dark

 But we never really know pain, do we, amid these cages of steel and glass towers and cemented ground. Society is the padding. It is the blade which drags itself across our hearts, which makes us shudder, which forces blood to well up where there was none before. It is what we throw ourselves into, hoping that someone will see. Hoping that someone will save us.

And some of us wear scars, crossing across forearms, embroidering stomachs, decorating hips, tattooing thighs; marks of who we really are. Some of us wear nothing, but the scars are there, just as deep, invisible against the skin, scratched into the soul; peel back the flesh and see what's written beneath. And some of us don't know how to get it out; breath in, drown - that's how it goes - drowning in something which nobody can see; drowning but still alive. We keep breathing because that's the only thing we know how to do; the question still scratches at the back of our minds - should we? Wouldn't it be easier? Some do. Lost souls, all.

Can we ever truly realise our pain until we compare it to another's. We all feel a different hurt, a different pain, but we all suffer just the same. Don't tell us that we don't. We all fear, we all cry out, silent screams which echo in the empty spaces, we all shiver in the dark. Grapple at the light, try to touch the pristine, the clean; dirty it with our taint, the grime we can't remove, ingrained into the layers of ourselves.

Remember. Remember it always; whisper it to yourself when you walk past, when your eyes slide away, unable to bear the reality of another hurting soul. Remember: we suffer all the same.

Fuck Normality

Everything we are is everything we should stand to be, forget what came before, be not afraid of what might come next. Stand up, be you. There's no one more perfect than you can be. And if those with spite and bitterness in their hearts try to stop you, let them not get in your way; poisonous plants can only grow where the soil is not pure. Keep true, whatever true might be, whether it be a foot in dreams and an eye in reality. 

Not everything is going to be black and white, but grey. Learn to see the colour. Realise that you aren't what other people tell you that you should be. Make up your own mind. Fuck normality. Just be.

The Fall

Fall. Falling. Topple over. Trip. Find yourself down on the ground. Taste the dirt in your mouth. Feel the ache of bruising skin, blood pooling in irregular splotches as you lie there. Think about how you go there, what went wrong. Then get up and try again. Learn.

Doors

I wonder about you sometimes, about both of you, about what goes on your heads. I wonder if you can even acknowledge that you have problems; hell, that we have problems. I wonder if you know that our problems start with you.

You yell. You never listen. The only emotion ever expressed is anger. We can't talk to you, so we don't. God, there are so many things you don't know. You're happy to assume, even when you're all wrong, so very, very wrong. Doors slam shut between us and you'll never know what lies behind them, which emotions, which devils come out to play while you're not looking. While you refuse to look. Are you always going to refuse to look?

The Stupidest Thing

The greatest insecurity, the greatest fear. The greatest hope. But what are the odds?

The Universe in Your Eyes

You told me a part of your story tonight, and it wasn't what I thought it would be. There was sorrow there, far deeper than I imagined, and suddenly, some past actions became better understood. I'm sorry for you, but glad of you; you're still here, after all.

Life gets better, doesn't it? Those dark moments are fleeting; seconds of terror in the spectrum of your lifetime, testing your limits. Look up, the sky is blue, and it's bright for you, for all of them; for all of us. We need to learn to see it.

But I'm glad you're here. You don't deserve to have disappeared - not while there is life in your eyes, not while universe appears in your iris.

Touching the Sky

Tiny pinpricks in the sky, so far, so small, so infinite. With shimmering colour, you paint the sky with beauty, the dead of the night no longer black, but bright. You watch over us in our gigantic playground, and we keep adding and taking away, creating, but destroying. If you could tell us what you thought, I wonder what you'd say. But you're so far removed, I don't think we would hear you anyway.

We are so small, compared to you; a minuscule dot on the face of the universe; an atom in an ocean. Is it any wonder that we try to break out beyond ourselves? When all seems so vast, the only comfort we have is reaching out to become one with that endless space; to touch something so far beyond us is the only thing we can think of to dull the pain of being so insignificant. We don't like feeling so mortal, so we shake the feeling off by trying to tackle the sky.

Bridge to the Future

The bridge might seem too great to cross, but every journey starts with a single step. Then one step turns into two, and two into a hundred, a hundred into a thousand, until the journey is done. That first one is always the hardest. And now you're on your way. You thought about where you ought to be and took the initiative to get there. It's not easy, it never is, but it is a goal, and a noble one, at that.

What do they see when their eyes stare at you? Do you think they see a failure? Or do you think they see someone who is determined to get to where they want to be, regardless of any difficulties in getting there? What you might feel is hidden by what they see in you; potential shines brighter than agony. It takes more than torture to break someone, and thus, it takes more than an obstacle to stop progress, especially your own.

The future might seem distant and improbable, but it creeps upon you, on second at a time, subtle and almost imperceptible, yet always looming. Sometimes it seems like a black cloud, with a lasso to tie you to eternal darkness; other times it is a beacon of light, guiding you to greatness. It can be anything for you, should you take the right paths. Nothing is ever permanent. Not even the journey.

The Feelings Which Came Again

I suppose you can never really outrun the feelings which have scarred your soul. They never truly disappear, they merely go into hibernation, reappearing when it is least convenient for you, in times of trouble and stress. And then you're back to where you started, wanting to crawl into a ball and cry yourself to sleep, because that feels like the only option you have.

Facing the world feels like the greatest challenge of them all, and it takes every last residue of willpower to hold your head high. All your strength is required to take the next step forward, all your courage is needed to complete the next action. And the next, and the next, and the next, until one day, you find yourself out of the challenge, looking back and wondering when it ended. And all that time, who noticed the struggle?

Wasn't it evident in your face? Couldn't they see it in your eyes, the way they shined with unshed tears? Wasn't it visible in the droop of your mouth? Did you hide it so well that no one could see? Or did nobody care to look?

It cuts you through the heart that those feelings of hopelessness could return and no one can see them in your face. Yet, you know, like the time before, you shall make it through. The depression wasn't strong enough to bring you down last time, nor will it be this time. Or any time again. You won't let it prevail.

Smothering Fog and Lip Piercings

We're at the threshold, aren't we, you and I? Possibly about to take steps in a different, unprecedented direction. Or do I simply imagine?

I feel my life is smothered in fog, suffocating, but not enough to let me die, so I live in a ghostly stasis, breaking away from life, but not quite joining the ranks of the unliving. Sometimes a ray of sunshine breaks through, letting me think that there's a way out from the mist, that there's something better beyond. Like you, for example.

To be honest, I can't be sure whether you're going to be a ray of sunshine, or trail of fire blazing my way into hell. Maybe you won't be either. Maybe I want you to be something because you're the first person in a long while who's talked to me like I matter. Is that a good enough reason? Probably not, but sometimes any reason is a good reason.

There's an awkwardness between us; the silence which fills the gaps isn't as comfortable as that which settles between two friends - it's the one which occurs when two people are beginning to unfurl to each other, but are afraid of moving forward too quickly. I'm not even certain whether this counts as too quickly; a conversation or two, some customer service, small talk, and finally, an exchanging of names.  You asked the question first, I showed you my name tag. I didn't have to ask for yours, it was displayed on the screen in front of me in black and white letters; a name which has haunted me, belonging to a very different person I used to know. But you're not like her; I can tell.

So were there flirtatious or hinting comments thrown in amongst the awkwardness, like a wolf hiding among dogs? Perhaps there was; I've never been able to tell. Maybe just a little. But I'm not very sure.

I don't know you, but I can tell certain things; you'd want me to give it up to you, that's one thing, and I'm not sure I'll be able to do that. To lose control is a fear of mine, and I know you'll want to be the one who has it all. I can see the glint of it in your blue eyes. Or maybe I'm wrong; maybe you'd let it go - maybe that's what it means when you bite your lip, sucking on the metal which pierces it. Twice.

I don't know. I believe I may be overthinking things again; a trait of mine, I'm afraid. And I don't know whether I should be wondering what it would be like to kiss you with your piercings, or whether I should wonder whether we'll meet again in the aisle with your favourite books. Or wondering anything about you at all. Maybe I ought to stop.

I'm certain I don't fancy you. I'm sure I'm just curious. And I'm sure one day the fog will stop stinging my eyes and I'll be able to see more clearly.

The Pain Which Runs Down

I keep so many things inside of me, hidden behind a lock and key, waiting for the right person to collide with my life, so that it may all come flooding out. Secrets and thoughts, desires and dreams - they are all there, patiently ticking their time away, from dusk till dawn and dawn till dusk; an endless cycle of rising suns and setting hopes.

Vulnerability: it's not something that I wear well. To lay it out for you would take a considerable amount of time, and trust, and emotional strain; I can't say it's worth it if you aren't going to be there for me when it's all in front of you. So the thoughts keep buzzing in my head, chasing their tails, digging deeper into the flesh of my brain, leaving a trail of scars, ensuring that I shall never forget, whilst reminding me that they're the only company I keep.

I need you, whoever you are, wherever you may be. I need the brush of your arm against mine, I need the warmth of your breath on my neck while you whisper that everything will be ok. I need your arms around me, sheltering me from the eyes which will shoot daggers when I reveal the truth. I need to you to save me from the mundanity of my own existence.

Don't judge me, please, on needing a saviour. I promise it doesn't happen all the time. But sometimes nothing can hold back the onslaught of emotion which rips through you, tearing a rift right through your soul. Sometimes you just need someone who will patch it all up and sew you back together from the skeins of flesh which decorate your room and the blood which paints the walls - reminders of how you couldn't hold it all back anymore. I'm not that close to the edge yet, but I'm on a downhill slope and I'm not sure I'm going to stop in time.

If I explode all over the room, please don't put me in a public place. Don't graffiti my pain across the most blank of walls, don't write it up in your books, don't tell it to your friends. Just be there for me while the blood runs down my neck and chest. Just be there when my blue insides become red outsides.

Empty Corridors

You know, I shouldn't, but I find it amusing, the way some people talk about you, like you haven't moved on from the separation between us. That I find enjoyment in your pain is not something I should be admitting to, but I cannot help but feel that it elevates me above you. You see, I don't care for you anymore, not in pain, nor in sorrow, nor nostalgia, but you, you can barely look at those who are still better friends with me than you and I shall ever be again. My confidence increases tenfold when I hear things like that, because it shows to me that I am a much stronger and much better person that I have ever given myself credit for. And you know something? I don't regret feeling this way, because it means the corridors of my heart aren't empty anymore, the way yours will be forever more.

A Public Appreciation

I don't think you all get enough credit, you people who traipse through our store, recognising us, laughing with us, smiling nervously at us, buying the books we so carefully put on display for you. So this is for you, the old man with your hat, soft spoken and never willing to share a smile, but who is more loyal than all the rest. It is for you, the mother who comes in with her daughter twice a week, almost always leaving with a brand new book clutched closely in a fresh yellow plastic bag. It is for you, the middle aged woman who loves the vampire fiction more than silly giggling teenage girls. It is for you, the student who always comes in, but not always for studious purposes. It is for you, the father who is always trying to learn new things to teach to his kids. It is for you, the mother who is always buying things for her children and never for herself. It is for you, the lady who wears her sunglasses, even indoors, always on the lookout for a new historical fiction novel to help you escape from the present. It is for you, the teenager who always comes to buy the next book in the series, as soon as she's finished the old one. And of course it is for you, the girl who loves wolves, buying something different every time, while her parents are elsewhere in the centre, occasionally popping in to roll their eyes while you and I bond over some new found similar interest.

Each time I walk through the door, or stand behind the counter with the scanner in hand, I smile for you, because you remember us and make us feel like we are someone in your life. So thank you. We appreciate it more than you think.

The Forgotten Craft

The words have fled, disappearing down some rabbit hole, hiding in the depths of the earth. They left me with a swarm of ideas and myriad of thoughts, and no way to express them, but with all the wrong words. My brain pulses with them, trying to extrude them from their places as electrical impulses and put them down in visible form, but is stopped; it cannot whilst it lacks the tools.

I recall that it is because I have forgotten how to recognise the right pattern; I've forgotten the practice because I've not seen it in a little while. I must read to remember to how to write.

The Infinite Scream

So, this is what it feels like to have a secret you cannot tell, to pass each day, censoring yourself because you're afraid of letting it out of it's dirty little cage. But what about those days when you can't help but get close, when you speak of something and it almost comes tumbling out, when people joke about it, and you, in order to protect it, must pretend to feel other than you do? What happens?

This happens. You scream on the inside, loud and clear, in frustration, in anger, in confession. You let your emotions beat against your bones and the inside of your skin, trying to explode through your pores, but you hold it in, seething, close to tears, close to giving in.

You think "one day. One day I'll be brave enough. One day, I won't have to feel like this anymore," and you hope, hope that a safety net will form around you, because you feel that day creeping upon you, and you're terrified that it will leave you with nowhere to stand.

I don't want to have nowhere to go if this all comes out.

The Creature that Feeds Within

Where did this dissatisfaction arise from? Crawling into my soul and creating a nest there, feeding off the indecision and insecurities which, from time to time, flood through me. I thought I'd done away with them, when I cleaned the cobwebs from the corners within me, brushing away the dust, so that my true self could shine through, the way it had always deserved to.

I know where I want to go, I know what I must do, but I am unsure of how to do it; and this dissatisfaction feeds away, taking pieces of me as it goes, while I try to muster the courage to move forward. It lies on my shoulders now, this burden for myself; the confrontation, one of many, has arrived at the fore, and now I must step up and meet it, not with a shining sword, but with the certainty of my decision, and the confidence that I will prevail - I must find the confidence I have never had in myself.

There isn't a hero who can save me now.

The Disjointed Feelings

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. The more I say the words, the more lost I feel at sea, drowning in waves of solitude and doubt. I cannot give answers to any question but this: I don't know.

The more I try to learn, to feel, to see, the more I find that I know nothing, feel nothing, see nothing.

I haven't needed a saviour in a long time; a year perhaps - a long time in the mind of someone who's forgotten how to measure time by the ticking of the clock. Maybe this is just one of those moments, an echo through the universe of the things I used to feel, rippling forward and reminding me that I used to feel differently: I used to feel too much. I've lost things. I've lost myself.

What am I doing? I don't know. Where am I going? I don't know. Where have I been? That's easier to answer, but it was all so long ago and the passage of time has melted the details.

I sit here, stifled by these walls, unchanged even as I change, hearing the words from the people who are supposed to love me, and I realise how little they know. How little they actually care. They pretend all they like, but they truly know nothing. But what can a well say to a puddle? The puddle shall never understand. It's mind is too tiny to comprehend. The puddle yells and screams and tries to force; it gets angry and frustrated because the well is not answering, but the problem is the puddle - it doesn't know the source of the problem; because it doesn't want to listen; living in its own world of made up solutions, it can never be told the truth. I'm running out of patience. But the puddles can't handle an influx of extra water - they would drown.

The window is open, the night crawls in, and smells, as foul as sewers clings to the walls, to the window sill, to the paint. Is it any wonder that I hide in here? I want to go out into the world - there's something I know - but I don't know what I shall do with myself. Sometimes I wish I could fall into true vagrancy, become one of the delinquents we were all warned about; at least I'd have a place in the world.

I'm tired of being someone else. I'm tired of not knowing myself. It's time I grew into me, wearing the attitude I've always wanted to wear, living the life I always saw in my dreams, glimpses into eternity of darkness, of the grunge they always try to clean.

They can't clean the stain on this soul.

Who was destined for greatness? Certainly not me.

A Linear Progression

Who knows if we are truly moving forward? We do what we think we must do to progress, but how do we know if we've merely reached the threshold, then tumbled backwards? March onwards, we must, it is ingrained into our consciousness, a need, but is onwards always the way we think it is? What if up is down, and forwards is back? What if right is left, and wrong is right? Do we have things the right way around, the way we think we do?

Question what you think you know, and you'll find that you know very little at all. Remember that a linear progression isn't always linear, and that it may not always have a leader, or followers, and that sometimes that is a blessing. Fight only for what you believe in. Live only for what you love. Die only for what you cannot live without.

Tunnel of Memories

Somewhere, there's a tunnel, lined on either side with memories, moments of my life where things changed. I can trace my path to this very moments through those memories. Every so often, I'll stop at one, heart beating against the inside of my ribcage, expanding, contracting, expanding, contracting, wishing that I could go back to that moment, because that's when things went wrong. But there's only one way out, and that's forwards - memories are just memories; books written, paintings finished, photographs taken and developed, stories told, songs composed - done, unchangeable. You can't try to stop the world with a tear.

A Memory Manifest

When you think the memories have all gone, when you think that you have moved on, you are reminded, with a kick to the chest that it is not entirely so. When dopplegangers of people you used to know appear, walking through your life unaware of the effect they're having on your rapidly beating heart, you know, without a doubt, that you are nostalgic, even in the tiniest bit, for the days which you still call the best of your life.

That was you, today, a stranger on the train, reminding me of who you used to be, from the part of the hair to the shape of the hands and the colour of the coat, she was like a memory manifest of those late days, when you and I knew we knew each other, but pretended to be strangers nonetheless. Before you changed completely. I hoped, as I was pushed too close to the other people on the train that she would look up and I would see you staring out into the carriage mosh pit, eyes dull and bored until you caught sight of me. But alas, a stupid hope. I knew it wasn't you, even though I didn't see her face at all to confirm it for me. There are some things you just know, as inherently as you know death. Because all things die in their time - even friendships. The two which became one disentangled once again.

The Influence of Waves

What are these thoughts which lap against the shore of my tired mind?  Gentle, but insistent, they change the pattern of the sand, the pattern of my thoughts, and I am unsure whether I can obey these new ideas. I put my hand to my head, hoping to draw them all out, to rid my brain of their chaotic influence, but the more I try, the more I fall into the blue. My soul is crying out; I'm sure I can hear it above the noise of waves, above the sobbing of my heart - the same sorrow as that of the great African beasts when they lose someone dear to them - mournful, helpless - but can I follow it in earnest? It wants to lead me to passion, to love, but it may lead me away from security. The choice, therefore, is this: do I follow passion, or do I place more value on security?

Skyscrapers and Words

I see it in my head, the way I want the story to be told, but it doesn't seem to be working out the way I have it scripted. Words never leave my mouth in the way I want them to, and the emotions in my heart are never the ones I wished they would be.

Some people reach for the stars and grab them, while others reach and reach and reach, and yet are never tall enough. How can a unit block compete with a skyscraper?

Beyond the Boundaries

"What is this?" you ask, "the answer to a lonely heart?" It beats and struggles and in desperation tries to cling to the vestiges of a dying morality, but the greyfaced people bear down, judging with their blank eyes, and slowly the lonely heart succumbs; it's better to be lonely among other people after all, is it not? It's better to rest after a drawn out battle, it's better to resist the chaos of movement for the stasis of tranquility. Is it not? Isn't that what life is? - a search for something better.

It's a shame that we end up with something worse. Grey cannot replace colour, imitation cannot replace life and gazing cannot replace thinking. So, this lonely heart will beat once more, it will rise above the sea of normality, and it will find its place among the stars. Because happiness begins beyond the boundaries of the accepted.