Stream of conscious madness

I’m tired of going snap a mouse trap surrounding the room with no gaps to maneuver around them. One false move and they’re all sent flying shut the words infused in the metal wires clamping down to shoot the sting beneath skin and cause words of anger and pain to come flying back at me like poisoned darts. There are booby traps all over this metaphor of booby traps.

No commas or pauses just continuous flow of lexemes (lovely word for word don’t you think?) as they enter circulate from mind to neck to shoulders down arms through fingers onto keyboard onto text that doesn’t appear fast enough for the torrent that just keeps on coming. Make no sense? Of course not. Nothing makes any sense until you stop untangle put together all nice and proper follow the rules set to make sense of a mind that truly has none at all in its most primitive form. They call you insane if you don’t follow those rules. I’ve been calling myself insane all my life but I’m as far from a rebel as this galaxy is from the next. Light years and light years but like the scientists of astronomy and studiers and explorers of space I want to get there even though the chances are one in those billions of light years. But hey at least there’s that one.

Where was I? Oh yes booby traps of vicious cycles that loop the loop and no one knows how to stop it because I started it and I don’t know either. I think the only way is to clamp my jaws shut with the intensity of one going through an epileptic seizure swallow down rage that really has no reason to be there in the first place so what am I doing who am I becoming what’s going on and why am I losing control I’ve fought so hard so many years to gain? No that work will not be in vain. I will get it back because it can’t go on like this I can’t be victim and perpetrator all at once I don’t want to be either so why are they opposites can there only be those two options do it or get it done to you? Then I’d rather be victim to be honest since I’m no good with guilt but I’m pretty good at handling pain. It’s unhealthy but hey it works doesn’t it except for times like these when domination over my own human nature gets a bit too difficult to obtain. It’ll happen it’ll happen I just need more time. Till then I’m sorry be patient thank you for putting up with me so long I’ll learn I promise I’ll learn to stop being such a bitch when it gets too much. I’ll expand the container feelings like that are kept in and redesign the lid so it’s much more airtight and lasts far longer I promise. I’m really really sorry I don’t mean it or rather I do but you were never supposed to know that or rather I don’t really it simply seems to be enhanced making me worse than the situation entails whatever the situation that happens to trigger me at the time is. I’m sorry.

I’m always sorry and I always mean it and you’d think I’d get tired of feeling so reprehensible but I seem to feel the need to beg pardon for every consequence of my existence and every breath that robs someone else of oxygen because it went into me instead. Breathe I’m sorry Breathe I’m sorry Breathe I’m so sorry I can’t help it. I’m too scared to die because I know exactly where I’m headed. Purgatory. Funny thing is while I know I’ll scream in agony that I also know I’ll still feel deserving of every lick of flame because this guilt in this life my life is so great there is no doubt it will carry with my soul when my heart stops beating.

I’m sorry for being like this I’m sorry for being like this I’m sorry for being me and if I could put that word in front of every other stupid word in this fucked up post without making it sound even more fucked up and hard to read I swear I would but please know my heart is making all the apologies all the time with every pulse every rush of blood through my undeserving veins arteries and capillaries.

I’m sorry.

(I don’t like who I am when I’m with you.)

You bring out the some of the crappiest parts of me and worst of all I can’t seem to help it when I’m around you which makes you resent me all the more because with anyone else it’s easy to bite back instead of fight back. I’m sorry for that I know it isn’t fair I really do know. I’m trying. I’ll try harder I promise.

(I don’t like who I am ever.)

(I don’t seem to be taking this very well.)

It must not agree with me. Maybe I’m allergic. Or intolerant. There is a difference, you know. Maybe I should just surrender to it and let it swallow me whole. The best way out is through, as the mysterious “they” say.

(Who are “they”? Hey! Can you give me the answers? Where can I find you?)

Really, though? Who has the energy for it? How are we supposed to get through over and over and over and over and… Well. You get the idea. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Or is it just me? Maybe. Maybe it is and I’m just weak. No surprise there, but I seemed to get on fine so far. I made it so far. So why now?

(Can’t I just lay here among the pillars holding me up?)

They’re cracking. I can see that, yes. There, and there, and there, too. Hmmm. Seem to be growing bigger. I can hear things inside them. They’re… No. I can’t tell. It’s too tumultuous. Muffled, but no less chaotic, no less… loud. I can see thin hands no less fierce for their look of frailty reaching out. Biding their time.

(I don’t want to look. They scare me.They’re waiting. Waiting to escape. Can’t I just lay here and not move? If I don’t move, they won’t be able to get out… Can I, please?)

Oh no. I can’t breathe again. It’s happening again. It’s been happening a lot. My lungs will contract again. I’ll choke in my effort to get oxygen into them again. My heart will beat unpleasantly faster again. My throat.. Oh god, what’s in there? Knives? Must be. In my core, too. Somewhere that’s not my gut, but not my heart, but everywhere at once. Knives. Daggers, sabers, scythes, short swords, long swords.

(Inhale. Exhale. Come on now, it’ll pass soon. Focus. Breathe. No. Don’t sob. Tears go back. BACK. There we go. It’s over.)

I know. I know you’re waiting inside me. I know you want to explode. I know you’re getting impatient. I don’t care. You won’t. I won’t let you. I won’t let you, you hear? You can destroy me if you want. But until you make very clear what will happen if I set you free, I will not. I will not risk you destroying everything dear to me. Because I know that’s what you may well do. Tear everything apart without a care. Go on a rampage.

(Then who will be left to clean up the mess? Make amends? Pick up the shattered pieces of not just myself, but everyone caught in the blast? No. You will never be free.)

Growl all you want. Make your threats. I will not break. I may be wavering now, may be growing a bit tired, but I will not break. You can’t make me. I won’t let you. I won’t let me.

(I’ll get my strength back. You’ll see… I won’t let you hurt them. They’ve done nothing to you. They don’t deserve it. I just need a little time… That’s all. Just a little time…)

You’re rattling your chains. I can hear them. You’re trying to set yourself and your minions free. I see them. I see you. Don’t you see? You can’t. Never. Ever.

(You’ll never be free. Even if it means that nor will I.)

Falling

With a smile, I push off the edge of the bridge, plummeting straight down into the rocks below. I can hear exhilarated screaming, and soon realise it’s me, my voice being carried up by the wind. My eyes stay open despite the sting of rushing air; I want to see it all. The world blurring past me, the ground rising to meet me, the bridge moving away, as if not wanting anything more to do with me. I feel my body cutting through the air, scattering the molecules, making them envelope me as I feel them run up my sides, from a singular point on my head. I am an arrow heading straight down. Gravity pulling me towards it gleefully, glad of the great prize it has captured, eager to share it with the earth that grows ever nearer.

And then, with a jerk, I stop, just inches over the ground. Before the bungee rope thrusts me upwards, I’m just able to reach down and touch one of the outcropping stones.

I’m pulled up, removed from Gravity’s grasp. I don’t have time to wonder how disappointed it must be, as the crowd claps and pats me on the back, congratulating me on my first jump. I nod and smile, then look at my instructor, who is beaming with pride. “Again.”

His smile falters for only a second. Surely such a thrill would be enough experienced only once? I can almost hear him think it. But then he nods, and announces it. Everyone looks at me as if I must be insane, or a thrill junkie, or just plain daring, but I ignore them and climb over the ledge once more.

This time, I don’t scream. I don’t even keep my eyes open. I simply feel myself falling. Enjoy the sensation of being completely out of control. There is nothing I can do. Nothing I want to do. I hear the air whispering in my ears, imagine those rocks growing closer and closer, almost anticipate what it would feel like if the rope snapped and I came crashing down with the full force of the momentum I’ve been gaining all the way.

But then I feel the jerk of the rope once more.

I’m almost disappointed.

Is it possible, I wonder…

For emotional wear-out to manifest itself physically?

If so, then it’s starting at my knees… Sorry mom. Knee caps are wearing out anyway, from running away from everything that scared me so. Running away from me. I see the fear in your eyes, you know. When you look at me. I see it. You, scared of me, of what I might turn out to be, what I might end up doing. And you’re scared for me, too. I can see it. I’ve always seen it. Maybe it’s my fear of myself reflected in your eyes. Or maybe I started being scared of myself because of the fear I saw. Maybe it’s both. Who knows?

I know what will be next. My hands. My hands will wear away from the harm they’ve done. To me. To anything and anyone else. Or rather, everything and everyone else. It’ll start at my fingertips that clutched blades, typed words, held, touched, hit. Then my knuckles, that tried to shatter walls in fury and pain and anger that I refused to let out to anyone else. Never them.

My mouth and tongue, too. From lack of use and too much use both at the same time. Harsh words spoken, and words bit back in fear, clutching at self-control with only the tips of my fingers so the words can be swallowed down to make a home in my heart and stay there, eating away.

My eyes. Dark and closed off. Eyes are the window the soul, it is said. I keep mine hidden away, and the blinds are closed, sorry. You won’t see that devastation so easily. That smoke and wreckage are no sight for anyone. She used to say that she could never see anything in my eyes. She could never read them, even when I tried to let her. Tried to show her. Only two things could she ever decipher. Pain and Passion. And both hurt her to see. Yes, they will wear away too. They have been denied their duty, after all. To reveal just as much as they observe. I made them selfish. Taking in, but never giving out.

My shoulders, from the burden I myself placed on them, and have now become too scared to ever take it off them for fear of the consequences. And fear that someone else might have to take it up in replacement.

Oh, and of course, my heart. I say nothing of it. There’s nothing I could say, no way I could describe it that could quite convey its true form. It… It won’t wear out. Because it already is, bit by bit. No. It will shatter.

One day. One day it will shatter. It will trigger a chain reaction of explosions; the rest of me will be in splinters and shards. When it happens, I will lay there in all my pieces and wait until I turn to minute dust, to be blown away in the wind and vanish forever.

In the meantime, I am wearing away, bit by bit by bit.

Shhh… It’s a secret. Until I’m ready to say my goodbyes.

Howl at the moon in desperate plea
without preamble or fear, beg to be free
Want the chains broken, the ropes to be cut
Want to escape but don’t know from what~

Head for the ocean (the moon’s domain after all)
Stand on a cliff and get ready to fall
High tide or low, either way, be crushed
But on the way down, God what a rush…

Maybe that’s where salvation lies
the lowest of low (so why aim for the skies?)
Those who managed to fly on tattered wings are famous but rare
Doesn’t seem to be a solid foundation for castles in air~

However this all began with the moon
a beautiful orb with no light of its own
A beacon of hope for those lost in the black
that maybe one day they’ll make it back

(Where?) To the skies where all truly belong
Tattered wings are wings still so go on, be strong
If even an inch you can get off the ground
Keep going higher, forget the way down

(Why?) There are castles up there and they all await Who needs foundations for our own Heaven’s gate?
And even if you keep trying and never make it at all
At least you’ll get to feel the rush of the fall~

I am not a morning person.

I used to be, once. I can vaguely remember looking forward to waking up early and being out there in daylight with the mist starting to slink away in shame and that.. “morning smell” as I used to call it. I used to love the sounds the birds made as they chirped about getting breakfast. Watched them hop about, telling each other random stories and singing random songs. I used to watch the wind blow through the trees, the leaves rustling in greeting, and I’d say hi, too.

I’m not a morning person anymore.

I’m not really a night person, either. I like peace, and if you knew where I lived you’d know that night is just as alive as day. Possibly even more alive, because with the night comes freedom, and with freedom comes the carefree joy of temporary irresponsibility.

I have become an in-betweener. The time between the witching hour and daybreak. The precious few moments between dusk and nightfall. These are my favourites. No matter where you are, the hush of these times are ever-present. You may be busy enough to ignore it consciously, but subconsciously, you know the world just slowed down. You know.

Mornings depress me, now. Sure, there is the beauty of the sunrise. The reflection of the sun’s rays picking out diamonds floating on the sea. But there is also the cars. The tall buildings. The smoke rising out of fumigated rubbish bins. I look outside and see the ghosts of what the earth once was. Where a building stands once stood a tree, or a sand dune, or an oasis. A forest, a wood, a lake, even… with an entire mini ecosystem of all five Kingdoms.

Then a car beeps its horn and the image vanishes. I am returned to the present to watch the smoke float into the earth’s lungs, tearing at her alveoli and making her heave with the effort to keep breathing, like an 80-year-old with an asthmatic attack besides.

I am not a morning person anymore because that is when I am most disappointed in what we have done to the world.

I am not a morning person because that is when I can feel the earth choking.

The earth is choking.

She lays in bed, an arm by her side, the other lightly draped over her stomach. Her eyes stare without seeing at the ceiling, until it all goes dark and she remembers to blink. Thoughts drift through her head, but nothing of substance, of meaning. Random insignificant memories, snippets of songs, images that hold no importance whatsoever and so simply float along as she watches, waiting for something to grab onto and allow her mind to explore fully. But nothing comes.

She wonders wryly whether she has run out of anything meaningful to think. To say. To feel.

Movements are slow. It takes her ages to get up so she can do what she has to do. Longer still to get them done. The marrow of her bones drawn out and replaced with molten lead, it seems. She fears staying still too long; she can feel roots right at the nerve-endings of her skin, waiting for her to forget so they can grow and embed her.. where?

Anywhere, anywhere, just let her keep still. A shrub with leaden core, what a specimen she’d make.

The haze caused by the heated weather seems to be reflected within— a mist covering her emotions. She knows they’re there, but a dim outline is all she can see. She can’t feel properly because of it, either. Her emotions are reaching out a hand through the haze yet she can only feel the slightest brush of fingertips.

Everything is so… Nothing. Only those who’ve felt this before know what it means. Everything feels so nothing.

She lays on her back in bed, an arm by her side, the other lightly draped over her stomach. Her eyes stare without seeing at the ceiling, until it all goes dark and she remembers to blink. Her hair grows rapidly, forming bark, growing leaves, wrapping around the headboard. Her fingertips extend as branches and run down to the floor, taking root. Her spinal cord grows shoots from between her vertebrae and punctures through the mattress, entwining with the bed frame. She was still too long.

Her eyes stare without seeing at the ceiling, until it all goes dark. This time… she doesn’t blink.

Take me with you

Taut,
 are the strings that bind us
 knit so close yet stretched so far apart; tapestry
 extending across oceans. Deserts.
Merciless, this distance
etched into the fabrics of our hearts and throbbing painfully
Where are you going? Where are you now?
I miss you. Stitch yourself closer? Or,
travel if you must, but do not let the string break
Have your adventure, but let there be slack between
your knot and mine, entangling around us, tying us together
Our perfect connection, no matter the miles, is bitter yet sweet
Undeniably, however, I need you near me. Please.

The Catalyst

“I am an Events Catalyst. When I’m around, things… happen. Faster. With more consistency.”

You meet her eyes, but she looks away, choosing not to elaborate quite yet. She’s sitting across from you in a leather chair a tad too big for her, her legs tucked beneath her thighs and hidden by the folds of her crimson red cloak. Little Red Riding Hood, you think, and can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself.

Her eyes dart back to you. She smiles wryly. “I know what you’re thinking. My cloak does resemble that of a famous fairy tale character.”

You look at her in surprise and she lets out a small laugh. “I read people, darling,” she explains. “Over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Besides, you’re not the first person to make the comparison.”

“So…”

“Why the get-up?”

“Yes.”

“This is a Catalyst’s uniform. The red represents what we do. Red is passion, red is chaos, red is love, red is blood. Red can mean energy, or more rarely, a calm of sorts. We catalysts have no control over what we instigate into being. It could be any of the above, or something else entirely. We wear red to symbolise that.”

“And what is it that you do, exactly? What is an ‘Events Catalyst’, in more detail?”

“We are human, mostly normal, simply born with the special capability to make things happen. We’re everywhere. We come into people’s lives at a crucial time – usually a transition of some sort – and our presence triggers a chain reaction of events. Some are good, some ill, but ultimately we bring a person to where they’re meant to be, and once we’ve taught them what they need to know… We fade away.”

“Fade away? And how do these ‘events’ affect you?” You’re more intrigued than ever. You begin to look back on your life to see if you’ve ever come across a Catalyst yourself.

“I’m not really sure how that one works myself. Something happens, or something changes in the dynamic, or both… And we fade away into the background. Still somewhat present, but never in the same way as before. Our purpose in their life is over. For the time being, at least. So it becomes time to move on.”

She stops, taking out a cigarette case from her trouser pocket. As she lights up, she glances at you questioningly, silently asking if you mind.

“Not at all,” you shake your head to her, and she closes her eyes to take a long drag.

“We’re allowed one vice, to help us handle the environments in which we work. This is mine.”

You can’t help but mention that smoking kills, surprised at your daring. “We’re all going to die someday, darling. If in my case it’s sooner rather than later, then all the better.”

You aren’t sure whether or not she’s joking.

Later, as you look over your notes, you realise she never did answer how she was affected by it all. You run the interview back in your head.

Well… Not directly.

Let the wind attack your face and tear at your hair, its high-pitched screams whistling in your ears.

Watch the world rush past you, on your sides, simultaneously rising up to meet you as you move towards it down below.

Don’t worry about hitting the ground. For now, you’re flying.

Feel the adrenaline rush through every blood vessel in your body, heading straight for your brain till you’re heady, drunk from it.

Remember to breathe between each scream of excitement and exhilaration. Gulp in the air, testing the nectar of each particle.

Free-fall.