One day it will round up...

I've always been told that I should look before I leap. And since I am accustomed to listen, I look. But I've learnt not to stare too long. Because with each passing moment, the void of uncertainty becomes bigger and scarier, while my attempts to predict each and every possible outcome, to evaluate every possible mistake, to prevent each possible failure tangle so fiercely that the knots are all I can see. So instead I try to look for the opportunity to leap, and leap faster than my fear can grab me. Leap before I talk myself out of it, before I convince myself to set up a temporary camp that turns into a permanent delay on my journey into my own heart.

Heartbeat racing, body shaking...

Addicted to the rush...

And now I know that silence is not distance - it is despair and distress and failure and weakness and dissociation and repeated attempts to venture into that world we were promised and made and protected. I'm all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet. And I'm always seeking something, it's tiring in the end, and it's only the beginning.

He will write in words of fire. He will write them on his skin. He will write about desire. Write beginnings, write of sin. He himself is the book he loves the best, his skin only holds the truth, he will be a palimpsest lines of age rewriting youth. He will not burn upon the pyre or be buried on the shelf. This is his letter to desire: and he'll never read himself. He will trace each word and comma as the final dusk descends, this is his tale of dreams and drama, let us find out how it ends.

I don't know how to feel...

I used to float, now I just fall down,

I used to know, but I'm not sure now.

Taking a drive, I was an ideal,

looked so alive, turns out, I'm not real.

Just something you dreamt of,

what was I made for?

It's a cruel summer...

Watch the lights go wild...

Meet me in the pouring rain,

take away the pain.

I have gained an understanding that my choices, once made, are absolute, that the realm of freedom exists only in the present and in the future, and that more harm than good is done in reimagining that some choice in the past might have been dismissed in favour of a better option. That kind of thinking has led me only to regret, to the rotting of my insides. I tend to chew life into pieces to make it easier for me to swallow, but what seems very clear to me now is that life is a jawbreaker and to be fair to the things I experience ... I have to gulp.

The things that mean the most...

You can't count my grace...

I will become an ocean and I'll keep thousands of demons to guard my secret. I'll create storms that none has ever seen and I will lure everyone to the darkest sides of what I am hiding back in my heart. I will become a prison holding myself, bounded by the judgements of people I care and chained by the rules of the world I live in. You will not see me crying, screaming and trying to tear myself into pieces when I stand in front of the mirror so that I could finally be free from myself. Even when the demon I have created inside beats me down and laughs at me, watching me bleed.

Meet me in the pouring rain...

What if we just leave a good thing alone?

Don't try to fix it if it isn't broke,

looking for the answers,

to the questions that we're asking,

but we'll never know.

Selling my parts...

But sometimes, unexpectedly, grief pounded over him in waves that left him gasping; and when the waves washed back, he found himself looking out over a brackish wreck which was illumined in a light so lucid, so heartsick and empty, that he could hardly remember that the world had ever been anything but dead.

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun. This is how I would describe my sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through my mind and my belief in some kind of beauty. It might not be much, but this is how I see the world with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, I am sure, when I express myself, to use the things around me, the images from my dreams, and the relationships that only exists in my fantasies.

Sink your teeth into me...

It is a supremely cruel thing to have your mind conjure a desire which it is functionally unable to realize. No one teaches you how to handle the death of a dream. And no one tells you it's all about to change, to be taken away. There's no proximity alert, no indication that you're standing on the precipice. And maybe that's what makes tragedy so tragic. Not just what happens, but how it happens: a sucker punch that comes at you out of nowhere, when you're least expecting it. No time to flinch or brace.

He is the wind that cries...

It's a cruel summer...

Everything seems different now. Going to sleep and waking up really has cathartic value. As if I was born again, and suddenly the room I am in looks far more familiar to me than it did this morning when I woke up and stumbled through it, trying to find the kitchen, desperate for a drink of water, desperate to piece together what happened last night. And yet it no longer seems shot through with pain, and sadness. It no longer seems emblematic of a life I cannot consider living. The ticking of the clock at my shoulder is no longer just marking time. It speaks to me. Relax, it says. Relax, and take what comes.

Next thing you know...

We live in the great unfound,

where thought and ghost still wonder,

we drift on the drifting sand,

where horrors of our past still linger,

we hide from the world of man,

from the cruelty that defines you,

we are the wind and cries,

we are the dead ghost nation.

Hidden in a perfect storm...

When the sky came down...

Is there a word for that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? Perhaps thinking, will this moment be the last time I see them? As the too-huge world comes vaulting before you. But we can't know for sure if it was a final goodbye. So we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.

He woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was one of the distinct times in his life, the strangest moment of all, when he didn't know who he was - he was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room he'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and he looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who he was for about fifteen strange seconds. He wasn't scared; he was just somebody else, some stranger, and his whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.