It’s hard for me to write when I’m high, or when I’m down. Hard for me when I struggle, hard for me when I’m out of touch with life.
Sitting in a corner in my mind, I can only care for so much. The words float, lead me astray; what I capture gives me the feeling of being entrapped, caged, and tamed, but free to be so. Another sense of touch, another day in my existence. This is a quiet place with no codes, no boundaries, and no one, no one to tell me how to steer clear away from it. From the lightness to the darkness; away from the sounds, closer to the quiet, as the drops of the rain lose their essence against my walls, I can only care for so much. Ah, the precarious feeling of stability maybe. For the confluence of such a hardship, dull is the dance to me…
One morning brings me so far away, in a place of joy of excitement, of ecstatic poetry and grace; a place of contempt, satisfaction and fullness; another brings me down, deeper than I could ever have conceived of. There are moments where I do remember ascending into existence, others where I do remember descending far below. We all spiralled in a world with no codes, free to make ones, condemned to do so. I have few friends who’ve been there, others I’ve lost on the way, M., C., K., and H., I loved you so much. S., I barely knew you, but it didn’t matter. May you all rest in peace.
There are no words for the ones I’m leaving here, I guess meagre attempts to shape in unison a predicament made of all the wounds I’ve ever had, and all the pain I’ve ever left, and all the words and the joy I ever dreamed of. May them be a nourishment for the body. If I accept to take it all in, will it be any different? I can only give you all enough space and enough time for myself. This is the least I could do, even it’s hard for me to articulate such lines.
In one single instant, all flips and all changes. Black is the white, white is the black. Feelings that are vanishing in the very same heart that made them to be transient and everlastings. Fragile is solid, thin is thick. Memories are, memories are not.
I close my eyes and see, and when I do open them, I don’t. There’s for such moments but one day, one eternity, far below any conscious awareness. For the choices I would make to feel any lighter, I see no candle and no flames. Press stop, rewind and play it again.
Bursts not in tears but in the contemplation of a void deeper than a deep silence, dreams, laughter and hopes that are quietly flushed away by the first wave, the first snow, the first leaves, the first tears.
In a single drop, I see a world of no dreams, of no nightmares either, nothing, nothing to run away from. The end could be then the beginning of that nothing. But what a strange place to be. I wondered a few times if I could dream, few times if I could feel. For I said myself what an exciting time to be alive, shattered is the self, shattered in a thousand pieces. The cold weaves the fabric of all which will be gone soon: Life is this nothing which permeates that everything.
How did it ever begin? In a dark place, doubtlessly. No sounds, and no voices for me, but a stillness which forever engraved by its presence the last words ever said. Fragile as it is, the hope to see any brighter is a luxury. I left aside all the strength, pushed all the grief and accepted to give away chunks of who I was, who I am as well. For all the happiness that left, for all the hopes that came, and for all the desires that burnt, I would forever hold in… as I can only care for so much.
Down is a place of familiarity; in the comfort it procures I feel a strange generosity. I could only acclaim so much of the strength I can find, only praise so much of the deep which can unfold; yet I cannot see such things. Closing my heart, for I can feel, but can only care for so much.
There are many that I miss, there’s much that I’ve missed – may be my inability to think clearly, my ability to sink, to sing, to dissect the signs, to see and to be seen.
Struggling in knowing what to be, struggling in being, struggling in knowing. In remembering the fairy tales, the harmonies, the poetry, the songs, and the peace, all coming to an end, all asking to be born again. I wonder if there’s ever something to do about it; Life is no life; Death is no death. Creation is the destruction, coming to an end is the rebirth. I looked inside, twice yet saw no one, and no such things as “it’s gonna be ok”.
I can barely touch the surface of a long time wandering around, wondering if such thick walls were always here. Nostalgia comes through sometimes, and when it does, colours are brighter. And for that moment, I give myself permission to hope, permission to remember. The taste and smell amplify, all feeding this echo chamber where I would sometime hear a string which resonates like no other. I remember the birds one morning, the cold against my thin jacket, and all that was said, all that was exchanged, floating before evaporating forever after. I remember the long walks by the trails, the deep contemplations. I wouldn’t have asked for this to be any different, not now, not ever. Sinking, and thin is the air, thin is tomorrow.
A desire to lay down and to fall asleep, to come close to my heart space, which once included whom I communed with, still does, sometime.
The poets left vistas of this realm, writers their blood, singers their pains, thinkers their wounds, friend their lives. All living amongst the dead, all loving once: As above, so below…