Myth says the clown came
from a circus up north,
with black tents that swallowed
every single visitor.
Myth says they tossed him out
at the break of dawn,
because he gave the ballerina
an acid shower,
and cut off her head with his axe.
Now he’s wandering the woods,
his white hands gripping her hair.
Her face is almost gone
and from smashing against trees
in the dark of the night.
But myth says
that though barely anything is left of her,
it’s still her mouth, her voice
that tells him whose head
to steal next.
Myth says they’re making an army, of heads but more importantly of voices.
The only thing myth doesn’t tell us,
is what will happen when
they have enough soldiers.
There is a man,
not flesh and bone, he’ll creep through the streets
till he finds your home.
Your sleeping eyes won’t see him,
and his cruel laugh is silent, but when he’s hanging over your bed, he’ll wake you up with his claws so violent.
Awake you will quickly be,
and the blinding pain you will feel, but it will last only for a moment, you’ll be dead when he drags you by the heel. There is a man,
carrying flesh and bone, he creeps through the street, tonight he found your home.
Your sleeping eyes didn’t see him, his silent laugh you didn’t hear,
when he hung over your bed
and his claws began to tear.
Quickly you woke up, your scream echoing through the town, but it lasted only for a moment, now your mangled body is his alone.
It's not even a joke, I do feel like a bird. Pretty often, actually. I feel a need to wander, to fly from this place, a need for change. And I wonder where it comes from, because it's definitely something new. Change used to make me nervous, I've never been adventurous, but I guess I just had to get to this point, where I feel stuck and tired of being where I am. I almost think I would take any road without knowing where it led, just for a change of scenery. I'm obsessed with the thought of an empty apartment with a mattress on the floor, lots of pillows, whatever music suits my mood, and the knowlegde that I can do whatever I want. This needs to happen, but I really don't like the though of the number of years I have to wait ...
When you see this, and I know you will, I'll already be different. A few more red lines on my hip, some more words typed with my fingertips, my nails a little longer, bloodred and ugly. Perhaps I'll feel brighter, perhaps not. Maybe you'll know exactly what I need, or maybe for a moment you have forgotten my existence. That's quite alright, because I'm very much aware of it myself. I'm constantly thinking about my own life, and what I can do with it. What kind of power I have when it comes to my story.
I can't see the reason I'm sitting here writing this, so it's very likely there isn't one. Nothing really matters, you know.
You can't stand on a needlepoint, you can't even try, but get as far down as you can and I promise you, you'll have space to walk around. You have miles of space to be, you'll have more space than you could ever fill. You'll be on your own, and no light will ever reach you. You'll have no view of the world, the sun you'll soon forget. But like people get used to beauty, so it is with the depths of the ocean and the dark caves we all end up in when we're lost.
Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing. I feel like I couldn't care less what happens to me. I know there are certain feelings that I ought to feel right now, but I'm not. I can lie for hours, staring into a wall with nothing but music for company, and I'm not even bored. I don't feel like doing anything, and most of all, I feel like being someone else, somewhere else, sometime else. I have nothing to be sad about, nothing to feel bad about, and yet, I'm not as happy as my life allows me to be. A lot of things scare me to death, but right now, I'm too numb to feel it. And I don't know how to do the things I know I have to do. I'd actually rather be hurt, broken, than feel like this. And it's typical of me - It seems it's absolutely impossible for me to just ... go with it.
I want to get out of here, away from annoying people and unnecessary worries. I want my own, quiet place, where I can live alone. I want to decide when I want to stay up all night, I want to have impulsive parties. I want to be able to lock myself up without anyone craving to know why. I'll write on the walls and sit in the windowsills. I'll get lonely, but it'll be okay. I'll keep my friends close. I'll go out and meet new people if I've got the nerve. I'll push my limits. And I'll feel safe all the time.
I'm tired of having people constantly hovering over me. I tired of feeling like I can't do what I want. I'm sick of restrictions. And it hurts to know that I have to live with it for three more years. Change is about to happen, and it's a change I don't feel good about. It makes me nervous. But I can't avoid it. I'm worrying too much. Dreaming too much. As usual. That, at least, won't change.
I'm being eaten up alive. There comes Insecurity, biting off more than it can chew. Happiness, a small bite, and then one more. Now Crazyness, a hundred crumbs. Numbness, I wish it wouldn't be so greedy. Spontaneity, how nice to see it hungry for a change. Curiousity, where did your appetite go? Boredom, stop eating now. Fear, you've had more than enough. I had hoped at least half of that had gone to Happiness. And then Carelessness, taking what's left.
I don't know anymore if it's worth it to be this cautios. I stand frozen if the ground's the least bit shaky. Even when it's not, I still hesitate to take the next step. I need to learn to let go of all worries, but I'm afraid I'm not strong enough to lift them all at once. I've never been broken, in any way, and I used to think a safe life was a good life. But now I'm no longer so sure. I need to learn to let go. I need to gather up the courage to jump. But first, I need to walk on steady feet. Right now, I'm going nowhere, except down.
I will leave so many footsteps. I will leave scars. Perhaps a smile here and there. Broken hearts. Cracks in the surfaces. I will do so many things, and I'll regret them, each and every one. I'll realise how little is worth the effort. I'll realise what actually is. I will love. I will hate. I will lose. I will receive. I will leave. I will kick my life around. And it will be nearly over before I'll take it seriously.
My sidewalks are golden. My sky is a feverish blue. My trees are old as time itself, and my birds sing of nostalgia. My face is covered in clouds, my mind in fog. The edges are blurred and my footsteps are soundless no matter how hard I stomp. My thoughts are either stabs of delicious pain, or waves of temporary confusion. My world is sharp colours, starry breaths of wind, intangible voices promising forever.
I will not let you count the stars. I will not let you taste horror. I will not let you take chances. I will not let you act on impulses. I will not let you take the plane to anywhere. I will not let you feel weightless. I will not let you reread your favorite book. I will not let you have an adventure.
I will not let you do any of these things.
Not without me.
But together, we will do all this and more. We will do everything. We will keep up with life.
You're unpredictable to yourself. So don't touch the knife to your skin. You might develop a habit. Don't stare too long into the fire. You might like it too much. Don't stretch the long hours by thinking. You might shake something out of balance up there. And don't hide away too far from others. You might not be able to find your way back.
It takes so little to lose yourself for good. Everyone needs an anchor.
Don't look at me. Don't try to talk to me. I'm not a friend. I'm just another member of your species, and you don't need me. I will pollute your life. I will tear down your walls. I will ruin you. And I will cover it all in bright, seducing lights, and you won't even notice, not until I'm gone and the lights start to fade.
I'm not a friend. I'm not an enemy, either. Ours is a history that will never be written.
Wait for the fire to consume you. You are not human until your bones are visible, and your every sin laid out for your eyes to be whiplashed by. Bet you forgot that mistake you made so long ago. There it is again. It doesn't matter, but you make it matter. You're too hard on yourself, but that's just a step on the way. Looks like you twisted an ankle, though. Bad luck.
Do you imagine your soul as black? Wavering in the wind that makes you cold to your bones? Are you human?