I think too fast sometimes.

Thoughts will race through my head, then suddenly one, or several, will pass by without me even really knowing what they were. Only a vague impression of them. Then I’ll have to stop my train of thought, and go back, and slow things down, sometimes repeat them, over and over, so I won’t forget. Make sense of them, put them in words, proper sentences, describe them. I can’t stand thinking in chopped words or phrases. I always have to sort them.

It’s probably why I need to write so often. It’s easier to sort my head out this way. I can see the words, feel them beneath my fingers. But the irony of it is, when I get the tools to write, the thoughts disappear, only to come back once I’m away from this place.

Pen and paper, I can’t use. It’s too slow a method. One that can’t keep up with everything I think. Whenever I try I just get frustrated and then the thoughts go away again, to be replaced with what I’m typing now. Frustration at there being too many thoughts to take down at once.

How do we handle it? It’s like our brains are being shot with multiple machine guns.. ratatatatatatataratatatatatatataratatattat.. And sometimes it all goes so fast and so hard, I can’t understand how we haven’t succumbed to this incredible amount of pressure inside our own heads, controlling our body, never stopping, hardly ever slowing down.. How have we not exploded?

No wonder people go completely and utterly insane.

No wonder they end up losing their minds… They don’t lose them, they give them up, toss them away, unable to take that goddamn pressure.

Witches’ Storm

{Inspired by a dust storm.}

“Get away from there!” Nat yelled. The double-glazed glass gates were shaking ominously, despite the many hands of other students pushing against them. She was terrified they would come crashing down on their heads.

She was the eldest, so they did as they were told, stepping beside her while their eyes remained fixed on the doors. Nat cursed inwardly. She was deeply her regretting her choice of transparent curtains. A set of dark thick ones would have kept them from having to look at the sight ahead, maybe even muffle the noise, which was bad enough as it was.

The ghosts of burned witches past continued to howl then attack the doors all together, their wails and screams combining to form one mournful, blood-curdling sound. Beneath her terror, Nat couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. All they had wanted all those years ago was salvation, and even now the doors were barred to them.

It went for hours. After a while, the others grew used to it. The novelty wore off and they continued with their work, but Nat gazed on. She felt like she owed it to them. That to ignore them would be disrespectful; like their torment meant nothing.

She watched as they raised dirt and dust until nothing could be seen. She watched as they gathered storm clouds, speeding them up and pushing them to crash together and thunder their rage. She closed her eyes, shaking, every time they launched another attack, convinced that they would break through.

Finally, she watched as they faded away one by, one each with a mournful wail. Then she made the mistake of looking into the eyes of the last witch to go; the last to have died. As the sun returned, a single tear rolled down her cheek at the great sadness she’d seen within them.

“At least the town will never forget what they’ve done. They won’t let them. And we too shall always remember the betrayal of our ancestors, which is why these gates are made of glass. We must never forget, no matter how far out into the world we may one day reach, how we turned our backs in fear and pride.”

Nat looked up at her mentor and nodded. Taking her outstretched hand, they walked together to continue their Potions lesson. She turned back one more time to where the witch had been, and promised to never forget.

I don’t want to miss a moment.

I’m tired. Really, really physically tired. This is a combination of short lived amounts of sleep and disturbing dreams to go with them. It’s taking its toll, and right now, the temptation to just lay my head down and close my eyes is growing so great the backs of my eyelids sting, as if trying to give me a sign. “Go on! Let us close, you moron!”

Soon. I’ll give in soon, promise.

Resentfully, though. Because this time is mine. The time when everyone else is fast asleep, so I have no demands to meet, no errands to run. There’s no one to interrupt me from whatever I choose to do, like write this post. And the silence is not confined to the many walls that make up our apartment, but to the outside world, as well. I am awake to watch the world fall asleep, and savour each moment of quiet solitude. I am awake to watch it wake up again, before visiting sleep myself. It’s become a routine that I am, for once, rather fond of. Almost like tucking a child in at night, then smiling as you watch them set out into the world in the morning while you finally rest. It’s a need to check that the earth is alright, to watch it and feel it come alive.

I wonder what it is that makes night and day feel so different. Fewer cars on the road? The darkness? Less people walking about, if any at all? Is the silence just from the lack of noise, or from something within us? That connection all humans share, letting us know the collective consciousnesses of the people around you are at rest. Their brains have slowed down, relaxed, stopped buzzing, and so it’s quiet.

Whatever the reason, I like it. I love it. It’s these times that I am most at peace, which is why feeling so damn tired is annoying me. I don’t want to sleep and waste away what would be another hour or so of delicious tranquillity. I don’t want to miss sensing it slowly sneak away as the world awakes, and grows louder with the clamouring thoughts of conscious minds as they go to work, go to school, build, talk, laugh, yell, live or at least exist.

I don’t want to miss a moment of it.

But since I really can’t help it, eyes drooping right now in fact, I’ll just console myself with the thought of another night to enjoy, and savour. And I will cherish it to the very last second.

So for now, Goodnight

Words Are Useless

I dreamt of words that free and that bind
Of words from heart and words from mind
Words so cruel, words so kind
Words that reveal, words that blind

I dreamt of words bitter and sweet
Of words that fool and words that teach
Words better read, words made for speech
Words of small consequence, words of far reach

I dreamt of words of love and hate
Of words that destroy and words that create
Words of agreement, words of debate
Words that bring together, words that separate

I dreamt of words of hope and light
Of words crouched in weakness, words standing in might
Words that feel wrong, words that feel right
Words from the unrepentant, words from the contrite

I dreamt of words hidden within screams
Of words about reality and words about dreams
Words respectable, words obscene
Words that err, words that redeem
Words filled with sorrow, words full of glee
Words of generosity, words of greed

I dreamt of words that praise and defame
Of words that alter and words that stay the same
Words excitingly mad, words boringly sane
Words that don’t stick, words that remain
Words of pride, words of guilt and shame

I dreamt of words of anger and reprimand
Of words that give and words that demand
Words of the sea, words of the land
Words small and simple, words complicated and grand

I dreamt of words whispered and yelled
Of words organised and words thrown pell-mell
Words all in motion, words that stood still
Words of friendly greeting, words of sad farewell

I dreamt of words of peace and war
Of words despised and words adored
Words from the present, words from before
Words for tomorrow and forever more

I dreamt of words of prose and rhyme
Of words of innocence and words of crime
Words for forgetting, words to remind
Words of dark sin, words pure and divine

I dreamt of words of ugliness and beauty
Of words irresponsible and words of duty
Words that spoke of desire, words that poured with need
Words burning in passion, words hollow in apathy

I dreamt of words and they consumed me whole
Stripped me down and laid bare my soul
And when I woke, I woke in pain
For the very last thing they spelled was, “Words without action…
…are words in vain.”

Inspired by a strange dream, where I could take hold of words. Some slipped from my hands, some were in bold, others normal. Different fonts, meanings, textures. Jolted awake and wrote as much as I could before I couldn’t any more. Continued throughout the day. Changing, adding. Here’s the final cut. There’s no particular order, really, except the structure of the verses.

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.