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.

Walking Through Water

This time around the words don't come so easily. It's like walking through water - possible, but difficult; each step I take brings me closer to the end, but it involves so much more effort, and the deeper I go, the harder it gets. Some day soon I'm going to end up underwater; I won't be able to breathe.

Somehow I'll find the fight in me to keep pushing through. If you walk enough, eventually you'll find your way out. Otherwise I'll be lost, and no one will mourn the disappearance.

Pocket Full of Dreams

 I've got a pocket full of dreams. You'd better believe that I'm going to make them come true. I face the mundaneness of life for the moment, with its repetitious architecture, its facades which are all the same, and I tell myself that I'm going to walk to a different beat, and be damn proud that I do.

I might not be like everyone else, normality might not be my forte, but who wants normality anyway?

Finding Life

I got lost somewhere between my dreams and reality and now I'm fated to wander between places, never reaching a destination. Nowhere feels like home, nowhere feels like a goal, and everywhere feels like somewhere I have been. Taking steps forwards isn't always the right answer, but walking backwards is worse. I ought to try stepping sideways, out of line of the overly trodden path and onto virgin earth, pure and undisturbed. It is there that perhaps I'll find something solid to hold on to and a dream to have and a past to have lived. Outside my boundaries I'll find life.

The Eyes Which Pretend Not to Stare

The wing of a vague thought brushes my mind, soft as a butterfly's wing, fleeting as the flicker of light from a candle, and unsure, I let it pass. The midnight hour approaches, and all that was forgotten in the light of day creeps back into mind, taunting the imagination, inviting you to indulge, and I can't help but wonder whether I am making a mistake in trying to forget, or making a mistake in trying to remember. Dark ringed eyes will stare into me behind my closed eyelids tonight. My mind will tick over, wondering. I will fall asleep no closer to an answer.

Intertwining Balance

You're not here, but somewhere far away, in a land where the sun never stops shining, and Luck leads you by the hand to wherever you want to be. It's a little strange, don't you think, that you're all the way over there, and I'm still stuck here, watching you take on the world and win. It's like looking through a glass, seeing another world, golden and beautiful, and knowing that you can never set foot there, that you can never touch it.

At times, I think it would be wonderful to have you walk through the garden of my side of existence, but you and I both know that you couldn't belong here; you'd be a beautiful bird held captive in a rusty, lacklustre cage in a rundown house amidst a falling apart world, where the only thing to reflect your beauty would be the open azure sky, taunting you with the freedom you'd never had. It's better this way, that you and I walk on opposite sides of the balancing point; the universe needs someone as illustrious as you walking in the light, just as it needs someone like me to lurk in the shadows, a threat to anyone who dares besmirch your name.

We'll continue to grow this way - you the leader, taking the giant steps, and I following close behind, inspired, but unable to ever reach the same heights as you. I won't begrudge you this; in fact, I'll defend you with my last breath. We are the two trees, after all, planted side by side, with branches intertwining, but never touching. Together we've created an archway for people from my world into yours.

Lost Time

I needed the time. That's my only excuse. Why did the time I have slip away so quickly? Now I'm too tired to try anymore.

Maybe I should just let it go. Nothing is significant in the big picture anyway.

Edge of Reality

Are we awake, or do we dream, unaware of our own reality? Those walls we built, woven from elaborate fantasies stand between us and the rest of the world when we balance on the point of consciousness, teetering to either side, but when we come to, do we always return to live with the rest of humankind, or do we lock ourselves behind the doors of our dreams?

Some of us can't face the day, some of us are afraid of being swept into non-existence by the thoughts of millions of other people, so drastically different from our own. Clinging to our dreams, with only one foot on the edge of reality to anchor us, we try to keep ourselves, to not be lost to the herd, to the mass conformity called Society. Others stare at us, wondering why we keep so far from them, labelling us in their minds as freaks, unknowing that we are like them in every way except for one and that is that we make our decisions based on ourselves, not on accepted normality. We hold on to our dreams because they are the only things which tether us to sanity, and in the world we inhabit, sanity is valued above individuality. We hold on to our dreams because that's where we feel safe and whole - not like the ghosts we've become, who tread in the fringes of what is accepted.

A Prolonged Winter

Do not think that I have forgotten those words which used to flow within me, bleeding from my pen across the paper. Sometimes I wonder where they have gone and why they have not made an appearance in so long, but upon thought, I realise that it is because I have not sat down to access them. They sit there still, within my veins, pushed along with every beat of my heart, waiting to be plucked out from my veins and scattered over the pages.

Do not think that my heart is a frozen wasteland, untouched by this new world where emotion is not so unwisely invested as it was before. In truth, the emotions are still there, biding their time until a situation arises and they are needed. There will be one in time, there is no doubt, but for now, the winter of my heart reigns supreme, staunching the flow of poetry and ornamental prose which used to glide so freely from me; like the skeletal trees framing the white sky, they are not dead, but full of life, simply awaiting the best time to burst again full into bloom.

The Almost Stranger, the Violinist and the Reminder

I saw her today, from somewhere not so far away, and my heart didn't bother to do a leap or two. My stomach didn't turn, my cheeks didn't flush and I wasn't inclined to run or scream or flail. I noted her presence, turned the page and continued to draw the scenery. I have no idea whether she ever saw me upon that knoll, sketching away in pen. She got on the bus with the rest of the throng and it sped away, leaving behind an empty sidewalk.

But the memory of her remained; memories of times when we were more than just strangers. Later I saw a violinist, the passion for his music etched into the lines of his face as his bow sawed across the strings. In the tunnel he played, his melody cutting into my heart, above the noise of hundred people walking by, a melancholy reminder of all the things which used to be. It could have been heartbreaking, it could have been sorrowful, it could have been disheartening; but it wasn't. The music reminded me that I am who I am because of the people I used to know and it told me that I ought to hold my head up high and keep those memories with me, so that I may remember where I have been and remember where I am going. I don't know where she is going, but I know where I want to be, so I will keep her and that violinist and his music which echoed through the tunnel with me always - an inspiration to push on.

The Marionette and the Puppeteer

You unconsciously rise in my mind from time to time, unbidden and unwelcome. I feel that I owe it to myself to be better than you, like there's some competition being run and I must be in the lead. I simply cannot let that go, and for that reason, you and I are still tied. You are still the puppeteer and I am yet the marionette. Tell me, when do I become my own person? When do you disappear?

I don't want these feelings. This freedom from you is an illusion; the memories and thoughts of you are still my cage. Strange, isn't it? But I do not often think of you, but just know that when I do, I don't regret our past. The only thing I want is to be better than anything you could ever be. You may still pull the strings, but that is only because your actions inspire me to work harder, and I, the marionette, act against you. Never fear, one day the master will become the apprentice, and on that day, I shall be somewhere you could never reach, somewhere high above you. One day, you'll wish you were me. I promise you that today, certain to hold true; you'll remember that I do not break my promises.

Untapped Potential

Isn't it a shame that we don't even scratch the surface of our potential? There is so much we can do, so much we can become, and yet, we sit stagnant our entire lives, not bothering to grow; we're like flower buds which begin to blossom, but stop ourselves before we burst into full bloom. Our true beauty, our true nature, and our true potential are all erased by strokes made with our own hands. Are we too afraid? Or are we too lazy? Or do we not even consider the possibility that we could be so much more than we are?

I want to change that; I want to grow. I want to be as amazing as I can possibly be in one lifetime. What about you?