And so it goes

Inside her is a bleakness far worse than insincerity with living, a consuming insignificance almost respiratory in its demand to progress. Each wandering is a mechanical slut of an endurance so foreign to accomplishment, so naïve to the consumate relief of an end. And yet, her analytical chagrin is keen on asking which could be worse – the misgivings of people blatantly unprepared for insidious discourse, or the reality that she cares enough to feel the need to be understood on a level even her molecules, in their miserable infinity, do not have the space for.

The unimaginable diversity of human experience perhaps tethers her to the fraying notion of continuity, and her bones become weary from the insufferable marriage of chronic cynicism and intrinsic idealism that is her daily toil. Often during quiet mornings before daybreak, she allows herself the surrender to an untarnished possibility, only to be drowned moments after by the interminable violence of resuscitation. She clings to her cigarettes as the waves come crashing in, the merciless tides calling her name. 

Star

I’m seeing a distant star. Maybe it isn’t even a star, it seems to be moving. I don’t know; I have poor eyesight.
People say there’s something romantic about looking at stars, some contemplative shit about how what you are seeing is actually a thing of the past. I am treading lightly on a languid and murky pool of nostalgia, threatening to steal my sleep should I wade in any deeper. And there goes another twinkle I might never fully grasp the meaning of. My eyelids are heavyweight champions.

The rain is probably resting for the night, deciding to resume its helpless dance in the morning when the terminally disinterested eat inconvenience for breakfast. It’s a ritual, this getting up and going thing. Too dated yet seemingly necessary. 

My brother talks in his sleep and I have a mind to ask him if I could read books for a living. 

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Sometimes I live in a dream

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Sometimes, I live in a dream, where moments are my past and hopes are my future, with the outstretched present urging its calloused fingers to take my hand and walk me along its grotesque curves, its unrelenting depths, its bent bridges towards the promised further. And inasmuch as I faithfully subscribe to the omnipotence of The Great Unknown, I hardly ever break new ground. Sometimes I live in a dream, and I am still.

The tinder that colors sunrises gave up on me long ago. Flow is the ransom I paid for an anchor. When you have already crossed numerous trajectories, seeking out a collision course that will halt your aimlessness but failing to grasp a particle long enough to alter your own vacuumed inertia, you begin crumbling-speck by lonesome speck, into a concept that you wish you could believe. Sometimes, I live in a dream, and I become a singularity that consumes.

I wish there was more to this dream than the intimate darkness and the white noise, but when you look inside a person, that’s all you ever really get to see.

Ubiquity of Insignificance

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You wish to matter. But the world is in color, and you are black and white. It was never simply black or white. Even greyness requires force, requires resistance, requires balance, requires stability. Sanity levels fluctuate every ten seconds; emotions eat off every microscopic morsel that gets left behind.

Then the rain falls. The flood is no longer physical. The cold is no longer physiological. Downpour and darkness; the struggle to stay standing. You are wet. You are perspiring, you are foggy, you are aimless – falling, merging, escaping. You are a million pieces of diamonds, shattering upon impact. The lightning and thunders are at the mercy of your inner storms.

Finally, the warmth. Which never comes.

“If I go back, I am lost; to go forward, I must go back” and other paradoxical stumbles

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Passion can sometimes be lonely; after all, nothing beats the universal bittersweet embrace of struggle. I went ahead and drank my second cup of chocolate, forgetting how sublime the sun dances during summer, not realizing that mornings and afternoons blur into  a single stroke of faithful existence. In a few moments or more, the breeze of an imminent ending shall caress my cheeks, reminding my frail heart that some things go, and some things stay the same.

Twenty or so fathoms ahead, I might find the exact colors that refused binary shackles back when I still had better vision. Building is both an exact science and a profound art, and even scaffolding could not dictate which way perception flows in this paper reality.

Space is tricky. I should probably keep on riding the train during rush hour. You never really know a person unless you have shared sweat stains on a day that repeats itself before you can call it quits.