Your needs and wishes are branches
pulling at my hair
flies
cramming down my throat.
I am floating
no more.
18.9.16
14.9.16
10.9.16
*
I try. It is really nonsensical, almost invisible on the outside but there's a constant chaos waging on the inside of my head and I try to tame it, to somehow make up for it. The expectations of others, the pain shame of disappointing, of never enough, always just by little bit but enough not to pass unnoticed. Over the past years I've been dismantling; reassembling, then taking apart again, looking through the pieces of memories to find the core of truth, the one thing that will somehow make everything worthwhile or logical or bearable or pretty. Once the illusion is broken it can never be put back together, no matter how hard you try or plead. Maybe growing up is about having all the youthful illusions broken, the eyes once opened never close, the vision can only be clouded, numbed, but it's still there.
I've seen the most part of it, the friendships, the families, the lovers, all those supposed to be meaningful to be always lacking; supposedly sufficient until they're not. And then the confirmation whispered, that they were never enough, but they could have been, they could have been. And the more you see it the less you want to but you don't want to go back either, willful ignorance is pathetic, something to be pitied. It shows a weakness of spirit, a denial to know and accept one's self.
And you accept, and you learn to embrace it and then to live with it, to enjoy what you can and even to fight. And I wish that were enough. But when you're soft you don't choose the places where the skin gives way, where the light hurts most, you're just soft all over and if you can't punch through the world then you wrap your self around the world, your world and try to make it all ok. As if holding on tight enough will keep everything together. As if you can keep anyone together.
You can't even keep yourself together. The needs of everyone just keep pulling at you, your needs too. It's not a voice that screams, it's the little things that eat away at you. The silences, a bottle in the freezer, an unused room, things that were never moved, questions, promises whispered, appointments said but never fixed, it's rolling around to a pillow, the leftover smell in some else room, a special drink, stories that happened to somebody else, your stories happening to somebody else, it's knowing the next move without even seeing it, the smell in the air, sometimes it's knowing the wrong side of people too much, too well, sometimes it's their good side and it hurts equally much. It's your hands, hungry and cowardly, all the words drowned at the back of your throat, a cemetery at the based of your throat that chokes you, it's being always careful, never relaxed, measuring words, measuring the loudness, constructed. It's speaking truthfully low and slurring and avoiding to do so sober because then you can't be held accounted for what you say, it's the liquor speaking, not you being human.
It's all this and much more, your getting accustomed to them but not really, a numb mist spreading over your mind, a hollow laugh, too cynical for your age, you were supposed to dream still. It's knowing you don't and even if you did, you have no idea what it would be of.
I've seen the most part of it, the friendships, the families, the lovers, all those supposed to be meaningful to be always lacking; supposedly sufficient until they're not. And then the confirmation whispered, that they were never enough, but they could have been, they could have been. And the more you see it the less you want to but you don't want to go back either, willful ignorance is pathetic, something to be pitied. It shows a weakness of spirit, a denial to know and accept one's self.
And you accept, and you learn to embrace it and then to live with it, to enjoy what you can and even to fight. And I wish that were enough. But when you're soft you don't choose the places where the skin gives way, where the light hurts most, you're just soft all over and if you can't punch through the world then you wrap your self around the world, your world and try to make it all ok. As if holding on tight enough will keep everything together. As if you can keep anyone together.
You can't even keep yourself together. The needs of everyone just keep pulling at you, your needs too. It's not a voice that screams, it's the little things that eat away at you. The silences, a bottle in the freezer, an unused room, things that were never moved, questions, promises whispered, appointments said but never fixed, it's rolling around to a pillow, the leftover smell in some else room, a special drink, stories that happened to somebody else, your stories happening to somebody else, it's knowing the next move without even seeing it, the smell in the air, sometimes it's knowing the wrong side of people too much, too well, sometimes it's their good side and it hurts equally much. It's your hands, hungry and cowardly, all the words drowned at the back of your throat, a cemetery at the based of your throat that chokes you, it's being always careful, never relaxed, measuring words, measuring the loudness, constructed. It's speaking truthfully low and slurring and avoiding to do so sober because then you can't be held accounted for what you say, it's the liquor speaking, not you being human.
It's all this and much more, your getting accustomed to them but not really, a numb mist spreading over your mind, a hollow laugh, too cynical for your age, you were supposed to dream still. It's knowing you don't and even if you did, you have no idea what it would be of.
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