where reason fails. when any attempt at exoneration, only secretes more rhetoric. when darkness turns from the mere absence of light, to its vehement denial.day collides with night declares war on dawn submits to loss triumphs over reward secedes to guilt.
where do you look for inspiration?
four hundred grams. thats what it weighs, the heart. four hundred grams. it pumps away. in sheer darkness. oblivious, of the tragic soliloquy. wafting across your insides. mindless of the encroaching vines of sad thoughts. it pumps away.thoughtless. innocent.
why are we scared?
an overwhelming wish for unconditional freedom. a gripping prophecy, of an epic calamity. the dilated pupils. of a fast-approaching disaster.you try to garner the firewood of sympathy. long for the familiar scent of familiarity. strain your ears. so you'd not miss a voice. you know the voice. you hate the voices.but you love the singular note of this one voice. that effigy you built of her. all the statuettes of cotton candy. the figurines of rum filled chocolate. the face that remains after you've joined all the dots. when you come to the end of all that you can make sense of. you hear them speak. and all you hear is that one sound. her voice. asking nothing of you. but courage. the courage to be human. the courage to react. constructively.
the courage to give up. compulsion.
you want to break free. the chains of historical submission. want to break out. of the mirrored confines of self-doubt. your heart. all four hundred grams. circulating blatant screams of uninhibited intention. to escape is to touch her. to touch her is to live again. to live again, is to look back. to look back.
inspite of the impossible.
instead, you blame. undo all the good work. turn back the sand clock. smudge your own masterpiece. you blame. invisible angels of a personal nightmare. you reconcile. to be reconfined. four hundred grams is now collateral damage. four hundred grams is now excess baggage. blame. you take stock. you do the math. you look for the leaks. crib for the plugs. self-abuse. the machinations of regret take over. the ruling deities of self-conferred misfortune, wield their iron fist.
act like you are acting helpless. you are. helpless. you give yourself up, to the forces of death. you turn yourself in. and inside out. you cheer lustily as you are tried. tried and sentenced. sentenced to more than the lack of life. sentenced to unfeeling. that damp corner, safe from light and life? you scamper to it. smile incredulously. bored witless and free from freedom. you embrace bondage. you crumple. crusted eyelids. that once hid circling fireflies and parallel universes. stable limbs. that once rode over happy surprises and warmer sunrises. time-frozen thoughts. that once unsolved open mysteries and made movies. that never got made.
those four hundred grams. that once heard her say your name. strangely, they still do.