Sometimes I stop and just observe the current and everything else that either flows with it or go against it.
In that moment of stillness, I wonder why I’m here and if there’s anyone else noticing me in this messed-up world.
I make a splash and see that despite the hullabaloo, I have made ripples. I wonder if anyone will ever be affected by these tiny waves. I know it would be like asking for the moon to believe that it will.
I watch myself sink deeper into the sea.
In a few minutes, I shall be below see level.
My fears are real. They come for me at night — when the world is silent but undead. They sit on the foot of my bed and watch me watch them. Sometimes, they speak in a language that although makes no sense in my head, is clearly the same language my heart uses.
My fears are real. They do not harm me when they stay with me but they break me in pieces before the sun breaks the stillness of the night. And they carry with them each piece when the moon has had enough watching.
I am fading. My fears are real. My Self, is only the essence of who I am. I am scattered everywhere and is nowhere here at the same time. My fears are real — even more than me.
like milk that had gone sour
and stale cakes
that lingered with the air too much
my soul b r ea k s
into a hundred tiny crumb
that crumbles more.
fly like swords
and cut through
broken shards of my heart
and linger long enough
to leave me bleeding still.
no longer can I wish –
I could have waited
long enough to have
missed your promises
wanting only to dissipate.
I knocked on my old closet door and waited for that hushed hesitant answer. I opened the door sand told them they were free. My skeletons looked at me with fear and questioning in their eyes. I pulled them out and set them free. I told them that it was not fair that they had to be hidden there for years. For a few seconds they just stared until one by one they stood up and made creaking noises while they moved out.
I waited until the last one took the courage to move cautiously away from the closet doors. When they were all gone, I looked at the closet and blew the dust away. I sighed and moved inside the closet and shut the doors firmly.
Woke up to the piercing cold and the first thought that engulfs me is whether I am dead. Am I dead? I shout it out to the Darkness but only the shrill, crisp air retaliates.
I peek at the world through the heavy windows of my soul. Sleep still palpable. My room, like my heart, has been swallowed up by Darkness. Am I dead? I ask again. My words fall on dust covered books and crumpled paper. They pile up inside half-empty mugs and stale clothes plastered on my ancient mahogany floor.
I sit ever so slowly, pull my knees to my chin and let a tear escape. I am not dead, God. I am not dead. If I listen really carefully, I could hear my heart knocking inside me. I can will myself to blink. I cannot be dead.
I let myself sink back into the bed as I listen to the minutes being ferried off. The ticking sound tells me that I am moving toward the inevitable but it also tells me that I have somehow reached another side of this inevitable.
I push the blanket off me and inch my way ever so carefully out of the bed. Before I even leave the bed, I could tell that I have left it even before the piercing cold kills me.