There’s a storm in my mind. The lightening is casting around my skull. The thunder is starting to roll. It’s a downpour. I am soaked.
Sunken hands inside my chest, pulling out my limbs with every breath. Threading together my soulless interior.
Fire lighting my eyes, blazing through your faded memories. Diverge into my sanity, let the truth unfold.
Double meaning to these hollow words.
Because home is established from the first spot you felt safe. Everything after is just a relation– a variation of what’s really home.
You asked how a writer can be dead inside.
They feel everything.
I wanted to crumble and smile at the same time. Because how do you explain to someone that you’re so dead, you only feel alive when everyone around you is hidden?
I feel most alive in the dead of the night.
The people are sleeping. But the city is speaking.
Look at the shiny streets– gleaming like tears.
So pretty and endearing. Like a toothless grin, poked with dimples and baby blue eyes. Washed out with an ache nothing can heal. It’s innocent. Mindful. Abstract.
This is how the world should be.
Barely any cars. Not a soul in sight. Traffic lights transition for no one in particular. Just a light show for whoever is watching, listening.
Suddenly everything seems so much clearer. And it doesn’t hurt to breathe.
Noises inside my head, confided into another realm.
Green eyes, smashed away like my foot in this puddle.
Droplets fall from the trees.
I don’t mind. If anything I find the action blissful.
It’s captivating, isn’t it?
The lyrical hymns of the dead night. Somehow, still so loud and alive.
I quite possibly could sit here for hours. It seems safe here, tucked away in the confinement of the quiet earth.
Though, it has much to say.
Brilliant, it is. And quite alluring.
At times I’m afraid of my own voice. It gives me away. It falters when I should be steady.
But my cold fingers still graze forgotten pieces of art every day.
And everything stays the same.
Disclaimer. Original post here: https://rylanmason.wordpress.com/2015/11/24/abstract/