Is it possible to clean off your slate and restart?
No matter how far you run, what you refuse to remember, or who you become… You’ll never be free from your past. You can cover up your scars but at one point, they were engraved in your skin. You can’t undo what was once done to you.
It began some number of years back, the world went dark. The storm clouds rolled in with a hint of thunder. As the storm carried on the sky lit up over time as my anger grew stronger. The sun used to bleed through the ominous clouds sometimes, but I guess I just scared it away for some reason. I chase it whenever it shines. I’m always chasing something but I’m still not quite sure what it is that I am after.
The voids have become a part of my soul. Nothing will ever fill them, however I’ve known of this reality for a bit of time now. Maybe now they are erupting. Something(s) deep within me has been, is, and possibly forever will be __. What if my contempt is just that _. Maybe I’m so furiously running after something I know not of is the reason… the reason I am unable to fill in the __.
The hurricane waters have come, years of rain from the ominous sky have flooded my world. I find myself basking in the waters filled with old lives. Lives that were lost long ago but physically taken by this inevitable storm. The bodies and I dance in the tide of the rushing water. I see them- fighting to keep afloat and save their last breaths. It’s entertaining to watch them, trying to hold on when its so __ to let go. I won’t fight to keep my body above the channel. My body is sinking, like a cement-filled coffin dumped into the sea. As I stare up at the surface, I see their legs kicking, arms flailing, stamina rapidly depleting. Then one by one they all join me, here at the bottom.
Now I lay on flat, as rest, atop the once congested asphalt. It’s flooded now, civilization- something that once was, but will never again be. The hurricane swept it all away.
The interesting aspect of my new death is that my eyes never closed. I still feel, see, and know that something is missing. Even with death came no satisfaction. I care not of what I have become but still of what may be coming. I will not relent. I will continue to chase the voids, although I passed long ago it will never truly end. The yearning for something else can never die, even after everything else does so.
It looks like a tiny black spot in the distance amidst a white room. As I approach the blemish it expands, larger and larger as I draw closer and closer. As I creep toward the, now, gaping dark hallway a familiar sensation overwhelms me. Now I realize what this passageway is; depression. But I’ve been a resident of that shelter before, she is calling me to come home again. Once more I am drawn. In a moment of weakness, I sit down to negotiate the terms of my impending return. As time slips away I soon catch myself. I stand up from the conference table, but I now peer out of the blackened hallway and see a white room far in the distance. I am home again yet I have always been an orphan.
In a mission to depart this dank reality in which I have sunk ankle-deep into the muck, I trudge and fight to free myself.
-Stop- then in just a moment I was free again, observing the black spot from a distance in this white-walled abyss. Was it real or just a dream? Dare I step towards the darkness to find out?
What is it about the candle blowing the wind?
It’s that time of year, again. The first time the window is open while a taste of a spring breeze floats into the room, whirling around the flames. It gently nudges the fire, dancing atop her wick. The wick is her stage. She dances when I spark her up, usually as a result of a tiresome day. It’s pleasant to come home to this cabaret… maybe because its constant, ceteris paribus.
Next the breeze slowly makes its way to me, as I sit among my thoughts atop this lonesome sofa. Emptiness, I see it all around me yet I feel at home. My thoughts fill up the room, almost cluttering the shelves I cleared months ago. Yet another spring is making its way to my neighborhood. The seasons change every year, first the temperature shifts then come the leaves. If we hold the changing season ceteris paribus, we can see how different everything is from season to season.
Once you learn to hold things ceteris paribus, then you begin the analysis. An in depth look at how and what changed, but now you can see why because of the constants. There are certain things and perhaps particular people that we want to hold constant but the true test is this: when the seasons change, ceteris paribus, who remains standing from year to year?
Then you will understand why you choose to watch her glowing beauty dance top her wick, she will always be a dancer in the wind as long as you keep her embers glowing. The seasons may change but the candle’s flame is who you are… inextinguishable, ceteris paribus.
What happens one day if I wake up to a reality that bleeds “it was all a waste.”
What if everything I do is a complete waste of time and energy?
What if every opportunity I pass up to allegedly better myself actually turns out to be the contrary?
The if’s keep my mind occupied when I wish to rest. What if it all really is bullshit?
I wonder if this path will ever actually flow into something productive. More importantly, will I enjoy where the path leads?
Even if I screw everything up accordingly to what should be “best” for me… The only weight on my mind is you. I need you to be next to me traveling every path.
Even if everything in this life is utter and complete bullshit, I just need you to never let go.
When I was a kid I wanted the super power of invisibility because that’s how I felt, no one cared to notice me so why bother showing my skin?
I still want that power but now I feel they look at me too much.
Maybe I am my own worst enemy.
… I still want to disappear sometimes. -hush, that’s our little secret now-
Why is it that the voids always resurface?
There is always an empty feeling that lurks behind me, relentlessly working ‘round the clock to ensure I never forget about… the memories I wish to hide beneath the soil. Those thoughts that keep me awake each night. Most of all, it lurks to remind me that I always have, am, and forever will be… haunted.
Never to rest in peace, even after I lay beneath the soil, next to my hidden memories.
And yet again it begins… I shun the days the world looks at me and treasure when it ignores me. If I want to be noticed I will carefully select those I desire, otherwise consider me a phantom.
Insomnia has once again returned to the foot of my bed, watching me with her glowing reddish irises. She is grinning, her teeth look like the cat from Alice in Wonderland. She’s chuckling now, juggling my troubles and poking each of them with a knife.
She terrifies me. Not because she is always lurking in the shadows and haunting my being. But because I sometimes enjoy her company.
It was easier when I didn’t care at all. It was a cold alleyway but I never had to think about the consequences simply because cared not of what could or would happen. If they left, I felt satisfied. Not one left me, I pushed them all away then took care of their disposal.
But now I find myself in a new place. I care of what I say. I care very much of what I say and how I say it. I care too much. Because I wish not to repeat the past.
Why don’t the demons let up? I just want to taste sweet slumber… I want some sort of peace of mind to drift away with.
When the sun falls to a full moon, the shadows begin to howl. These darling cries are not to be taken so lightly. They are asking for someone to listen. For someone for care. For someone to look them in the eye and offer a shoulder.
Isn’t that why we can hear these howls in the first place? The shadows simply mirror the reasons why we praise the moon each sleepless night. The yelps that come from the shadows aren’t so foreign. In order to hear them, you have to feel them.
Tis beautiful this evening, the moon. As she glows tragically in the dank sky, without even a comet to give her hope. She reaches for a star but by the time her fingertip glazes the edge, it burns out. So, alone, she rises and falls each night in and out of the blessed sky. She castes a shadow of the purest emotion, utter emptiness. These shadows are all we have; we are the lost souls who ponder why our sadness howls at the moonlight. But we are also the only ones who appreciate the moon for her distinct beauty.
Writers will write. Painters will paint. Sculptors will sculpt. These minds are no doubt full of talent. But those particular ones who write, paint, or sculpt by moonlight create masterpieces that are incomparable. These pieces are products of raw emotion. They hide nothing. They reveal all we have to offer. We offer up ourselves to the night, each night when the demons keep us from sleeping. We are the lost souls who mimic the moon, for both are under-appreciated and misunderstood.
When the shadows are howling, listen very carefully. For these cries could be life or death.
I want to run far away to the end of the earth where no one has ever step foot before.
Why is it that sometimes listening to a melody without any words is so soothing? Is it because we’d rather write our own lyrics than listen to a pre-fab version? Or maybe words simply tend to aggravate the situation. There are times when Beethoven and Bach orchestrate reality much better than any other. The melody becomes a trance, we slowing slip into it. The next step is falling. Falling deep into the thoughts that drive us to listen. Eyelids slowing subdue and reality becomes a faint player humming in the background somewhere. These melodies allow us to slip and fall. Then tumble down the rabbit hole. But a hole in which we have dug and hollowed out. A hole that will keep us safe even when the surface is at war.
Sometimes words are the last thing we need. To create your own lyrics is a much more difficult task, one that takes skill. One that may never be mastered but perpetually improving. Becoming a lyricist without ever using a single consonant or vowel is a journey few embark on and fewer continue to transverse. When the melody strikes you and lacks conversation, ride it out until you find your sanctuary.
I must confess.
Sometimes my thoughts are quite tormenting.
But that isn’t my confession.
My confession is that… sometimes I adore them.
