each days passes with more fervor than the last. each night lingers with more intent than the last. in pursuit of vagaries we reach out to in vain, letting ourselves drown in the depths that have cast in stone our doubts for tomorrow. is it really pointless to persist on analyzing that which is gone? the incessant drones of voices in ear drums as they persevere to let it be known that being lost is never by mistake, but by complacency. yet they have always been met by nonchalance, when faking confidence.
have we lost to our memories?
each calculated step performed to the joy of a perfectionist. each step she dances, delicate and full of grace. yet her face is sullen and her eyes are closed. but she does not falter. this routine she has taken again and again when laden with the misery she inflicts upon herself. she remembers perfectly, what comes after the other, almost with swagger. she knows i sit and stare in awe as her pink pointe puts to shame a midsummers night's dream.
flooding lights, blind my sight.
she stands in the middle of the stage motionless letting the light cast shadows under her eyes to hide her shame from me. she stretches her hand out and whispers my name, begging for my awakening. pleading for my influence as she feeds off it to stay sane. she touches my fingers and drags me in between everywhere and good bye, knowing i need an end to my heading nowhere.
but she is deceitful.
like a drop that had sent ripples through still water, i blink. causing a tremor in my state of vision shaking my sense of self awake; finding myself sitting amongst silence and the vibrations of strings attached to piano keys. only to see the stage empty, proving my bliss montage fake. the pink pointe in my hand, tattered and aged depicting my state of mind.
i have lost, to perdurance.
8 comments:
Purely verbal eloquence.
"i have lost, to perdurance."
...so have i....
where is this abstinence we promise ourselves?
for we dwell endlessly in repenting for the better when we destroy ourselves over and over again giving no chance to the self healing we are blessed with.
which is worse?
when i wallow in the paper cuttings you shower me with and reminisce of the times and hours and seconds in which you stroke my hair and tell me it is as smooth as you.
or when the paper cuts meet my fingers as i flip through pages and pages of your decadent diary in hopes of finding another answer but always feel chagrin.
which?
tell me.
My denials are imminently culminating, yet i allow myself to traverse them...a gift of retribution to no-one.
Maybe the intensity we desire in our own endless destruction is what we crave when we perceive things from over the edge of the abyss after having been in the darkness for too long. We realize our entrapment in such a massive and meaningless void and yearn for the sensation of something...anything. Perhaps the inflictions themselves are what heal us.
Which is worse, you ask? Both...equally...for the ache I feel when I see blood on your hands is a mournful remembrance of everything that was...and the texture of your hair beneath my fingertips is an exacting reminder of all that wasn't...
I have nothing but more questions and a tragic dialect with which I memorialize my vermillion sufferings. I see we both use a very similar verbiage.
Guest blog? Intriguing...tell me more.
and yet those denials shield us from gargantuan changes in the predetermined lines across our plams.
but are they?
for even those lines experience change when they submit to the chronological order, as we do. and within this time, is when we do destroy ourselves gradually when we attempt to embellish our lives with more and more deceit.
the entrapment you speak of, is no more than the speech we give ourselves when cursing again and again, the fact that we have diverted the gaze towards that road and put down our first steps blindly.
but meaningless it is not. a void it is not. how can they be? how can seeking solace and epiphany lead to the void you speak of? how?
and then we realise that as such, inevitable and incredible are but verbatim spewed thoughtlessly by the other, for wanting to be wanted is not always credited to solely you. or me.
speak of whispers that drift at night among the icy breeze my love. for the blood in my hands has been long dried and my skins crack as i try to clasp the last petal that fell from your tears. and no more am i able to taste your scent as you kiss my neck and lead me to prurient literature.
you and i.
the totality, that was, of beatific beauty.
...those denials do indeed provide a fog that protects us...but only until we realize that that is what they are...and then they only provide a sweet self-flagellation, and it is realized that it has become the only thing in your control. But is not all deceit, dear one. Mortification provokes the most savage honesty and the most exquisite surrender...
Once guilty of the diverted gaze you speak of, I now revel in the peripheral. I see everything. Please... leave your footprints heavily in these sands of suffering so I do not lose my way again.
Meaninglessness and a void IT IS...but I have a secret. When the anguish is overwhelming, when the burden weighs so oppressively that one feels his spine is about to disintegrate under the pressure, the void itself cracks open, and the light of epiphany shines through. There can be no revelation without this ominous twilight. They are one and the same, dearest. Cannot meaning only come from within? When my soul becomes empty and I have nothing to give, will you emanate significance? Or is is your destiny to simply evaporate from space/time and run away with your seminality like all the others?
In the world of wanting...there IS only me...only my thoughts, my desires, and a despairing illusion of 'other'. Can any of it ever be really real? Or are we doomed for eternity to wallow in the miasma of the life we think we lead?
I close my eyes...and try to feel your essence through the words that have become imposters...but I feel nothing. I have been bled dry...
Trace my hidden scars with your fingertips...and know that I am real.
no. meaning cannot only come from within. for how does one know whether or not the wind blows?
the leaves rustle in unison.
like that i have found meaning in you, my love. the ominous light was only your eyes that replaced my intense malevolence, and replaced the poison with pure benevolence to replenish my decomposing self.
but isn't that proof enough? that i do emanate significance to thee, when i caress your back, as i cradle you with the tenderness one can only provide with the agony of affection?
do you not see?
that if we are dommed to lead a life as such, then i will be sentenced along with you to serve penance. to be purposefully hold you even when the barb wire that you are curled up in, perforate and puncture my outer skin.
now as i progressively bleed while i hold your hand, i am hopeful you will be reborn with the blood i have shed. and although it is arduous for me as time is not by my side, i still await you to open your eyes and see that i did not run away; your refusal to feel my presence made me invisible.
How softly you speak when you recite such resonant prose.
If you must hold me with such magnanimous affection(and I crave this as much as you)then embrace me with so much strength that in the pain of our shared lacerations everything disappears except the universe within your arms. Let us be there together just for that moment in a world where this fleeting time does not exist.
In the salience which you are prying my weary eyelids open to is where I begin to see the seedlings of my next regenesis.
You make me question...which one of us is the Dragon...and which the Phoenix?
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