i always think i am the broken one
cracking is necessary for transformation
that this is life, till i feel this ache inside my heart,
once again from
…..but even saying the word silently would stop my brain from turning as if it s a brand new information it never processed before. It is vast, no definition can ever fit it, no justification is fair enough for it. I would look at my both open hands as if it is something that i can hold and maybe then feel and make sense. I would look back into my memories as if i would easily pull a thread from all the stories that would explain what it is all about.
” I want to write about life” i said it again to no one but my self, and still…i am muted.
Re-definition, re-directing, search for the meanings, but whats there? what then? if we are and everything else is nothing but dust. Truth are the mist we created to cover our selves from nothingness.
I dont even hear any slight echo from anywhere in horizon when i told the sky that i want to write about life.
the world is getting noisier and noisier. here there, every corner is buzzing sounds and voices. people is struggling to find their own voices among the crowd so they scream louder. i fell into the same stream once twice till my own voice managed to nudge from the inside : what are you doing? i am here. then i would awake and stop screaming, and LIVE.
his shadow bores me, his wordplay bores me, no mystery anymore in the beauty he paints, too fragile, too vulnerable, too graceful, his kisses are probably getting boring, no more after flavor, nothing linger. i cant feel the sharpness of his words that still dripping in my head, they dont tickle me down there anymore, they dont make me come anymore.
I dont see kids running around in the park. I dont see their bright smile and stare from under my breasts. I dont see anything but that female figure standing at the tip of a cliff far above the clouds as if listening to the stories told by the moon. And the urge, is to be with her.
Thin air. It presents. It never left. Naked bodies, wash and move on after thousand kisses, the smile and fragrance linger a while more, but evaporate as I roll over another day. The desire to feel real, that this heart can bleed, but like thin air, how can I bleed when i can not feel. I am the memories.