Finality

Mornings and evenings can sometimes merge into a single blankness. When you let time pass you by, you're missing out on the way the sun comes up, or goes down. That is something of a manufactured night, without end.

We can sit in front of a lit screen and let fingers run wild in a frenzy of the inane, because it is easy. What is easier, is to explain it away. The excuses the mind makes to justify your delinquent fingers are rarely strong enough to hold up before a deeper examination. So the words you utter create a noise to distract you away from investigations of your self.


You're running away from meanings that words carry, because you're easily overwhelmed by how easy it is to misuse them. The sense of sanctity you attach to them turns into a neurosis translated into scattered dialog that means nothing. Nothing except your laziness, and your cowardice. This is saddening, to see you fleeing from your own words. Are you worried you'll run out of them, if you use them well? Or are you anxious that they may reveal too much of you, and make you a little vulnerable?

It is so hard to express the real, and the profane is such a comfort zone. How long can it all last, though? Eventually, the meanings that lie inside you will rebel and your little bubble of artificial peace will burst. It'll leave you more vulnerable than speaking yourself ever would. It might bring forth a hatred for your own fingers, your own tongue and your own mind.

It isn't just about words. It is about what you are not doing. The way you are stalling, and evading. It is the inertia you might've tried to label ennui, but didn't(you are not yet delusional). You know you have a lot to do, a lot to subject yourself to. Every minute I waste, there's the sound of a clock ticking in the back of my mind. Which is so easily drowned out, sometimes by alcohol. At other times, by the ruckus you surround yourself with.

Staying alone is different. Alone is alone, only when it is you, and not masks or acts. Solitude doesn't mean blankness, and numbness. It means a self-reflection and a painful honesty. You make plans. You keep thinking of when you will run away, or when you will achieve what you are capable of. Then, instead of action, you let futile thoughts run amok inside you. Your hands are tied by the meaningless threads you create. Of people, with a childish chaos and a space where everything can exist except yourself.

Maybe it's time to go back a few years and remember what it was like to do, and to feel. Not just to want and to build castles of sand. Your theory of evolution is obviously flawed. You concede gracefully, and rebuild.

There is no such thing as a "no exit". I'm making mine now. See you on the other side, if you live there, too.

:)

mmm

This is a half-empty morning, and even the cold is inadequate. There are a few sudden pangs of warmth invading the air around me. This is a fading memory of many years, spent with my feet inside warm blankets and my head heavy with sad dreams. Spiral journals, which were my spiraling journeys.

There was ground below me, which keeps slipping away now. It vanishes even when I sleep. And when it is gone, I take a walk on the moon. The moon that is made of my cheese, and the one where gravity barely exists. So that when you jump, you never return to the surface. No downward spirals, no crash landings.

When they say "your heart is in the right place", what place are they talking about? I have so many imaginary places, and like my moon made of cheese, they all have craters. Those can be filled by time but not space. Don't question this, because you'll go back to yesterday, if you do. And given the right crevice, you might land at right now. Which is the hardest to imagine.

If you dismiss the way the cold creeps into your heart, filling it with blood, you have never felt anything. To feel is also a function of time, and then we realize that space is often fiction. You cannot move through it freely, hence it does not exist. Even if it did, it couldn't course through your veins the way past moments and half-seconds do. Maybe because of the weight.

There is always this fascination around, of water filling your lungs and pushing the air out. Vacuum is unacceptable, so a river must take its place. Fishing is not allowed, and please do not dump your waste into it. The nets that we used to clean it with have too many holes. Because of the sudden writer's cramps.

Like this one, suddenly holding my fingers. Which is why I have to stop now.