tasteless

Tonight, I’m inside my head. It is quiet and dim and far from peaceful. I’m writing this, not with feeling, not with thought, but with numbness. And I’m afraid that if I close my eyes, I’ll see what’s inside my head: a burning sensation of being extinguished. No taste, no color.

I’m lost somewhere, and what I am now is only a wraith. I don’t want to close my eyes and maybe I don’t want to be found. Where do I find my taste and color? Where do I find you?

All I see grew darker, but it was my eyes that slowly lost the light. It’s all monochrome now.

I’m inside my head. Soft music is playing and a light is fading. I will die a thousand times tonight, and it’s only gonna make me more tired.

 

 

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Not Today.

I am vividly feeling the weight of something that is only in my head pressing against my very own being. I only get brief moments of a backwash before it hits hard again; it’s pressing.

A string of thoughts and feelings is wrapped around my neck, and my breath is shallow; the world gets darker.

I will let myself fade, slowly. And I know, eventually, I’ll be back and whole again, but not today.

Soft of touch, cruel of nature.

After your lips have kissed so many cigarettes and bottles, and after you have learned to romanticize all of it, you stand and stare blankly at a shadow of your self; a shadow of what now seems like a distant dream. You were touched or hauled or shoved, but it does not make a difference. The touch was not uninvited, no, it has its allure.

You’ve known a similar touch, a similar bittersweet allure in her lips. And after her lips met yours and after the soft touch, you never thought that it was romanticized; and it makes all the difference.

Now, as I stare at my shadow, I know that of all I’ve touched, your lips were the cruelest.

For Last Words

 

The last words I remember still echo in my head at night. She was never one to say a reckless word. I know ’cause I always listened. I saw past layers of her carefully-chosen words, beyond her deafening silences, and I knew.

Sometimes, I would be sitting against her, looking into her eyes while she talks, and I would get that feeling that it is the first time ever I hear someone talk; she would say words as dark as her hair, words that had no meaning to me until her lips met mine and gave them many. And I knew.

The last words you said are always the same, but it’s how I remember it that is different; of all the words that you said and the ones you didn’t, your last words were the ones I couldn’t make sense of. I never knew.

The same words that I so much loved wrecked me in the end. I always knew.

 

A Gift from Morpheus

Minutes had turned to hours before I was able to fall asleep, but these hours in my dark room were overshadowed by a certain feeling of longing. I shut my eyes and let sleep engulf me, trying to put an end to the feeling, the hours; but it was no end.

The feeling, it seems, had seeped into my sleep. Nevertheless, Morpheus did me a kindness: my longing was satisfied in an astonishing dream. And while the memory of the dream had faded fast just after I woke up, the satisfaction lasted nonetheless.

It is just a dream after all. But maybe its significance lies in its outcome.

 

The Climb Is Real

Between bits of intense emotions lies a cold predominant feeling. It is quite impossible to determine its source or ascertain the cause of its existence, but it was there, growing, rising and momentarily seen through flashes of light induced by the little triggers. And now, it’s stronger than ever.

This feeling resembles a wall so high, blocking any attempt to touch and connect with what’s beyond it; and what’s beyond it, is everything… and nothing. Because maybe the wall doesn’t exist; it is not real save in your mind: you created it to make sense of this listless feeling.

Where you stand, on your side of the wall, there’s comfort; it is safe. However, the nocturnal air is anxious, and you’re thinking about the wall and what’s beyond it. The thoughts, they turn your comfort into restlessness, they yield a new lone thought: the answer lies in climbing the wall. It would be risky, not always comfortable, but it would also make you feel alive. So you climb the wall and hope for the best.

The wall may not be real but the climb is. The climb is real. And it is, in a sense, a path to new opportunities, good and bad, to everything.

Winter

What we are is no longer consistent; we keep changing and starting anew. You’re like a novel winter that I’ve never known. I struggle with the difficulty that comes with embracing you, and cold nostalgia chills me to the bone.

What we shared remains untouched, for it is pure and beautiful in all senses. But we change. Your November rain left me awash; I tried to understand. You say I became the song you loved but got tired of listening to. The words are now empty, and all the meanings lost their charm. But you’re trying to understand and embrace.

I’m changing the words, and I will learn to swim through your rains.