Live my day as if there was no past...

He closed his eyes and began to weave a story. He abandoned the familiar threads he'd played so many times before and went in search of something new, no longer wanting a journey fed on pain or guilt. He needed one that could replace those wounds with strength, with resolve, with confidence. He needed a tale that could heal and build anew. The words warbled and fell, haphazard, chaotic, settling without flight. His forehead creased, yet he persisted. He let his fingers wander on their own, reached out with his mind. He chased the fleeting story he'd glimpsed once before. In his dreams he'd felt a hint of it: something wild, untamable, a thing sprung whole and flawless from the instant of creation.

A gate, a hedge, the same low hill...

Engraved on my mind...

Sever all ties. The words in his mouth like ash. It was not the coldness of the words that horrified him, their utter opposition to anything human, but rather his own affinity for them, the way he was drawn to this vision of solitude with a feeling almost of nostalgia. He had the kind of loneliness that battles everything, that makes a person strange forever.

They say in extreme moments time will slow, returning to its unmoving core, and standing there, it seemed as if everything stopped. Within the stillness, I felt the old, irrepressible ache to know what my point in the world might be. I felt the longing more solemnly than anything I'd ever felt, even more than my old innate loneliness. What came to me was a flicker of a dream of the lost boy who somehow still remembered how to conjure it. And how he carries that dream from place to place, like a sad, decaying hope.

As I get older I get more afraid...

Been finding it hard to be kind,

since I've been lost out there, 

losing my mind.

Only one knew my name,

nothing left but the autumn rain.

Drag me around,

let me drown.

I'm a crack in the pavement...

They keep moving the line...

Nekoč, 

morda, 

nekje, 

nekdo.

I stare at the stars and wonder if they are the same ones I swore upon so long ago. And even though there are so many and they look so close together, I know they are light years apart. The glitter in the sky looks as if I could scoop it all up in my hands and let the stars swirl and touch one another, but they are so distant, so very far apart, that they cannot feel the warmth of each other, even though they are made of burning. This is the secret of the stars, I tell myself. In the end, we are alone. No matter how close you seem, no one else can touch you.

Don't want to draw the line...

It struck me, sharp and hard, that I had been given so many chances to save my soul that my entire life had been constructed around these chances. That was my nature, going from temptation to temptation, not to sin, but to be redeemed. Now I no longer live in the beginning, I have lost it forever. Now I find myself is in the middle, knowing neither the end nor the beginning, and yet knowing that I am in the middle, coming from the beginning and going towards the end. I see that life is determined by these two facets, of which I know only that I don't not know them at all.

A sun killer lullaby...

Hold me like the pebbles in your hand...

No one is strong enough to withstand seeing too much of the universe's plan in advance. It must be revealed daily. And we must be led to it and through it slowly. There isn't any timing that seems like the right timing to be shattered into dust. There isn't any plan life could present where I would willingly agree to be broken into unglueable pieces. I just wouldn't, and what a tragedy that would be. My controlling things would prevent the dust required to make the new me I so desperately desire. Adversity breeds advancement. And I am ready to ascend. 

All amber lights and warning bells...

I'm just staring at the ceiling,

can't describe this feeling.

I've got in my head,

I'm out of body in my bed.

And I'm just searching up my symptoms,

desperate to fix them.

I'll do anything,

because lately I've been spiraling,

I'm not feeling like myself and

nothing ever seems to help.

Call me mister know it all...

His life was at a teetering point, and he was about to fall off the edge of a cliff. He was spiraling down a black pit, and there was nothing that was going to stop him. Once you're falling through the air, it's impossible to turn yourself around. The gravity of my actions was pulling him down, down, down. He saw black until sanity began to creep from the confines of his mind, leaving little more than a skeleton-like remnant of who he once was. Not inanimate but inactive, still alive but very much aloof, he started to passively float through the steps of life, numb.

As seemed to be the theme of my days recently, I was questioning my reality, questioning my dreams, questioning my mind, questioning what was real, what was imagined, and then questioning why. I was feeling displaced, like an outsider, as though I were simply doing a pale impersonation of myself. And not even a good impersonation either, with steps too long, breaths too quick, smile too wide, blinks too slow. Get a hold of yourself, idiot. So I searched the room, searched my world, interrogating the shadows, prodding the corners, acknowledging the spaces, seeking for something to ground myself. Anything at all.

Well I hope you do...

You will hear thunder and remember him, And think: he wanted storms. The rim of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson. And his heart will be on fire. Despite what it may seem, Time does indeed exist here, in small amounts. Feint forces of the universe they were, nearly indiscernible from the nothingness. A wind of change is blowing at him from behind and he needs to push forward with iron determination and a mental clarity hereto before unknown to him. Something in the microcosm that didn't even have a name went bling and against all the laws of probability, he is starting to open his eyes.

You're the only place I need...

I've seen it all too many times...

Riding on the wind...

When days are long, 

I drift away,

I play that song,

I used to play.

When skies are always summertime blue,

just like that, 

I'm back to loving life again.

Put me in the slammer...

These feelings aren't going away. They are linger. Hovering. They are with me always. These emotions are my roommates now, bunking up beside me at night. They are determined to ruin me, and yet I can never fully evict them from my brain. Most days now, they lie dormant in me. Sometimes it gets so quiet in my brain I think they've finally packed up and left. But then, suddenly, I start raging over the smallest of things. At first I'm perplexed, and then I remember: it's here again. I am still quite a bit mad.