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)
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)
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.
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.
Now there's another reason how movies can break your heart, and this time, this time it's not the movie itself, not the characters, not the story, not the intricate turn of events, montage or end credits. This time it's about time.
The time when that particular movie started to exist and roll through our monitor screen or theater canvas. Whether watched together or separate, the memories are there, during or post-watching.
Watching reruns are equally devastating. Then the sequels come, and a character moves on. Somehow, I relive your passing and the separateness gets stronger as I watch alone. Only my memories are there.
I die along with these movies and regenerate like Sisyphus, waiting for the world to turn and the next film to watch and an old one to rewatch.
I had an unspoken truce with myself that when I picked up the metaphorical pen again I would be going somewhere dark and familiar, that the correct choice would be not to pick up the pen.
For the past week, memories have been blindsiding me, without any triggers at all.
For the longest time, I took care not to play certain songs, watch certain movies, or pick up the camera. Even pick up a book.
I have succeeded until now, in a fit of temporary desperation, I pressed play on an Incubus video. It was a song in a playlist I have forgotten I had on YouTube.
So here we are.
