I can feel myself messing everything up. Behind glass, I am watching myself ruin the last few good things in my life. I scream and warn myself to stop but I can't hear. I don't want to be stuck. I don't want to be alone.
It all hurts. It stabs me over and over again and just when I think its over, the knife twists. There are happy people and people who get happy. There is the sadness of sad people and the sadness of happy people. If i am made up of ten levels, on most days, my outer level and two below that would be fine. But there are always the deeper levels tugging on the ones still okay. Trying to bring them down to their level. One day, I will have to admit defeat. The three fine layers I have left will have no more strength to fight. And when that day comes, everyone will know.
A Day in the Life. In my (ideal) day, I'd wake up at a nice and natural time, say 9:00AM, perhaps get out of bed and make myself some food (breakfast)-toast with chocolate spread, preferably Nutella, with my daily vitamins and tea. I'd finish eating, have a nice relaxing shower and get dressed into some cute and comfy clothing. Then I'd catch public transport with some friends into the city and go shopping. Starbucks, Stationery and Style are usually the three categories I have when shopping-Food & Drink, Writing Materials and Fashion! After of course we'd get lunch-perhaps Asian cuisine and get the bus/train/tram back home...
The people shuffle in with apprehensive steps and restrained expressions. How does one even present one's face in such situations? But the great man was there, weak and faint, smiling as much as he could in his condition. He made eye contact with as many of them as he could. The most prominent woman of the bunch spoke fearlessly. "You've been a good husband, and I will cherish our memories." The old man nodded. Then a boy, now a man, rested a hand on the bed rail. "You once told me I can do what anyone else can do. If someone else can do it, so can I. Thank you." The old man's smile was firm and formal. Then the girl, now a woman, approached. She looked like she was about to speak, but she didn't. Couldn't. The old man lifted his head ever so faintly and she leaned to him. He whispered to her, "life waits for no man, and bows for no woman. But it slows slightly for beauty, especially the beauty of a generous deed."
In the first week, I adjusted my ways of everyday life to make it somehow include you. I would walk a longer way in the hall just to see a smile on your face that was clearly meant for someone other than me. I sat in my car during the mornings before class, just hoping to catch a quick glance at you. I texted you over the smallest things, waiting for a reply that usually never came. But in every week following the first, the adjustments became a little bit harder than the weeks before. I started hurrying to class and hoping my phone would die so I could have a reason to stop existing in the world around me. The little things that once made you so special became burdens, or maybe I just saw them for what they really were. You were like the bruised apple of the bunched, and I had somewhat hoped you would taste better than the rest.
Grave flashes of light admonish the quilted sky into a battered terrain of quixotic colours that bleed into your conciseness . Splintering images that haunt as you stare into the abyss between the flashes. Each a canyon unto which you see reflected your own predicament. your mood senses each deranged explosion as a confirmation of your impending doom. Nothing will save us now. No god. No religion. No truth. Nature exists to instil in us a damning fear of the unknown. But it's not the unknown we've come to fear. its each other. and the things we've left unsaid seen in the grandiose expression of feeling draped in the imagery of the stars