Killer.

A sudden pang of longing hit me, of riding the metro at night, singing along with Brandon Flowers while fighting the current existential angst. Then I find myself moving along with the crowd having a separate sense of urgency. 

I walk slowly towards inevitability, the curbside lined with thoughts of jumping off the ledge of this certainty. 

The longing passes, except for the ache. Mr. Flowers sang that dreams aren't what they used to be. It's now dark again. I'm there. I'm always there in the end.

If the answer is no, can I change your mind?

I carry it with me.

there's this pain inside.
it slips in and out of time.
displaced, dislocated.
and settles in the same pressure points.
load-bearing posts.
and everything blurs
in the dust of the
post-collapse.
it also gets harder to breathe.

I am afraid of the coming calm.

good night.

effortless pain.
it is suddenly there,
unwanted and unwelcome. honest and brutal.
no blood but flayed still.

timeless, ageless 
but perhaps for the unfeeling.

the wretched.
the resigned.
and the compliant.

the pain is a companion,
a balance for the abyss. that still beckons 
not to stare, but
to leap.
for the faithless.
the guiltless.

but pain is a tether.
and stays.
the abyss can only wait,

like the endless night that it is.

8 centimeters away.

have you seen me lately. 

there's the feeling of fading away again, or something very close to the feeling. 

even if emotions tether me, the sense of vanishing holds a certain allure.
and completeness.

"I remember me
and all the little things
that make up a memory...

and these days I feel like I'm fading away..."

have you looked at me lately. have you held me lately. 


(020424)

cinders.

Like it has always been and I still don't fit in this world, even after more than a dozen world views later. except that it's not even a priority in this sadness, in this burning. nothing takes precedence after your chest caves in and continues to crumble away, only stopping when there's nothing there anymore.

There is still light, but slowly that will fade as I inch inside the very walls that have hidden me. A little over ten years and there is no one left to remind me, of how the stories go, and how the characters went. 

I can finally acknowledge that it is there;
that seeming mental impossibility 

and the stories are all true, after all.

(020424)

sharp.

This path has never been friendly. I have a feeling that it doesn't even care about you in the end. Not one bit. The punishing climb and jagged rocks that serve as handholds and footholds seem to support this. 

We are ghosts still. Hungering to touch and be touched.

It will be another world once we start to bleed. with scenes familiar and strange; all beautiful at the same time. Would we choose to bleed. 

And we keep on climbing while we take the time to decide. Strange purgatorial anticipation.
Will ghosts die if they fall.

days go by.

it's been years, lifetimes, lives of standing still. a safe and a way to live, a way to go on and ignore everything else. even myself, in order to breathe, sleep, move, and walk. then the feeling came; familiar, warm, and reassuring. promises, warm embraces, and perhaps a right way to feel. 

It should begin here. Let my cup runneth over. Let the waves run me under. Let the rain wash over me. 

and still be scared shitless of the ghosts and ghouls of the past ten years lying in wait.