Uncomfortably sitting in the back seat of my uncle's car I glanced through the uncrystalised windows. The passerbys looked the same every ten meters or less, as if they were being repeated, in a maddening copy&paste waltz. The graffiti that covered the buildings by the avenue seemed to shine bright in the orange late afternoon sunlight, almost glitching, and for a second I could see blue CGI mass in the corners where the walls meet. Reality was mesmerizingly unreal. I took a pipe and a lighter from god knows where and smoked something with all the strenght in my lungs but there was no taste and the smoke flowing from the pipe didn't burned my eyes as it was supposed to. I quickly inhaled the biggest amount of air I could, the way someone who's been too long underwater would and I wasn't able to feel my ribs expanding, as if I didn't have any organs. I looked down and I couldn't see my legs nor my body, just my hands. Before I could panic different guns appeared and changed between them in my hands in the blink of an eye, which I couldn't name but, surprisingly, knew how to charge and fire. It kept changing 'till I was holding the classic, well known AK47 and it weighed lighter than a feather - it didn't weighed at all. The car stopped all of a sudden. I looked at the rearview mirror and my uncle wasn't himself anymore, just a random copy&paste clone who looked exactly like the one I saw moments before in the paralel street. I couldn't feel the leather seat against my back anymore and I felt nothing when my hands touched the apparently gelid door hanlde. I left the car, stepped outside and standed there for a moment. There was no air, no atmosphere, no heat and every sound was a sample. I crossed the street and walked to a group of three hookers wearing the same clothes, bodies and face, walking senseless to nowhere. A tiny target appeared over the head of the hooker in the middle, and it slided down her body, stopping over her chest. Ratatata. I shot. "People" mechanically ran away in despair. Around the prostitute's cadaver was small amounts of money, floating in a green bubble of light and I was forced to walk over it. Ka-ching. Bloody steps followed me and vanished rapidly after being printed to the ground. The cursed target appeared one more time. I shot again and for the first time I felt something in this new world, and it was blood. Its texture, its warmth, the smell of iron, the feeling of it drying and coagulating over my non existant skin, life leaving the copy&paste cadavers I kept shooting after they were already down. It was then I lost control of my body, when I recognized it no longer existed. The last trace of myself is my mind, trapped in here, floating in a city made of pixels and crime, witnessing disasters from the point of view of a killer, of a thief, of a drug dealer. A concrete jungle where I'm the predator, the hero, the protagonist. I am children's favorite entertainment.
As I leave the safety of my front door, I begin slowly at first; one foot in front of the other & before too long I break into my stride. The air is so cold it hurts, it burns to breathe but I do not recoil from it, no I welcome it's embrace. The city is in slumber as I traverse through it's networks of veins and arteries, all I can hear is the beating of my heart struggling to keep up with the pace my feet are trying to set. I am determined, I try to fight through the pain, but alas I succumb to it and must stop. I take deep breathes, the air chills me to the bone but I feel free.
look through my eyes, can you see that star, can you see how it illuminates the world, can you see how it burns the darkness, can you see how it makes me lighter, can you see that although there may be a brighter star, through my eyes the light of you is all i see. look through my eyes can you see the shadows lurking, can you see the darkness encroaching, can you see the demons enveloping the light, can you see my heart, laid upon the stone ground, torn from my chest, barely beating as if it is struggling to find a reason to keep on beating. look through my eyes can you see the emptiness now that my bright star has gone
I remember a time, standing in my best friend's driveway late at night. I took a drag off your cigarette but you told me I could only have one because they weren't good for me. That was months ago. Now you tell me that you're no good for me, that being with you will be another mistake to regret in the morning. But I keep waking up wishing I'd stayed up later to love you longer. And I know that you're good for me even if you can't see it yet. I love you so much that I'll compromise and say that we're just friends even though I know that the universe has much bigger plans. And I'm not one for that type of compromise. So I'll call it blind trust in us, that somehow, someway, someday we'll be together like I knew we should be that night in his driveway.
We are poets.
We find ourselves at 3am with overthinking minds
where writing becomes our solace.
We fall in love with language because we are the writers of words long forgotten.
We spend hours trying to describe poetically
the simplest things you could imagine
or we spend a few minutes trying to explain the meaning of life.
We have the darkest and most twisted minds,
filled with beauty and madness
We write so much that not writing makes us anxious
We are the dreamers in an awake world
the sufferers in a peaceful time.
We are poets,
and our fingers become the pen in which we write
as we pour out our souls onto the page of our hearts
We write until our words become us
and we write until moving a pen across paper
becomes our breathing.