Sweet is this memory, restrained in retort. Extended and drawn out. Like a slow furtive breath coughed out of lungs that do not want to let it out. Your sob of anguish held inaudibly in the folds of skin on your forehead. These nights go on uninterrupted like a compelte stranger to light. An alien to the break of dawn. These seconds die a stagnant death in front of me, only to be resurrected, moments later to regurgitate all that I have been trying to escape. Why do I even try? Why do I even inoculate myself with new ideas that explode into a drastic pandemonium of panic even before there is a hint of fruition to any of the branches I impale upon myself. I see your face and I close my eyes, and I see it again. I plot my escape route but never find the road. Acquiesce is the answer. I have to freeze the fear cold and face the hideous facade. The ugliness is soaking but it cleanses. You are yet a spirit trying to grow your skin. You talk to me in a million ways that I don't yet understand. Your words are weightless but they still weigh me down. Perhaps you know more. Perhaps you feel more. Perhaps this deficiency of expression is only a hindrance and deep down, when I talk to you, you absorb my dialogue, and you absorb my stare, and the dust on my words leave a little stain on the canvas of your brain. Perhaps one day when you wake up you will see the dusty sketches I have tried to create. For now you are resticted and restrained to within the small confines of what your brain lets you hear. That is why there is ink on these pages. That is why these words are not talking, but screaming, raging, yelling in anger and anguish. Drawn out is this night. Time is a terribly slow drudge. I nudge my reality to stumble forward but who really knows what comes next? I am afraid of the distant future because thats what men do. Men fear. Mean fear theeir greatest unrealized possibilities. Maybe you will turn out to be a mirage: sparkling and shimmering from a distance, but always staying at a distance. Maybe the stains I try to leave will be washed away by the sheer acidity of a well structured and coherent barrage of a multidimensional propoganda. That future is bleak and pointless. I feel like a time traveler leaping to and from the future trying to carve out my next stride. Time is oblivious and impervious. Time moves on and forgets but it treads on a delicate string. I'm holding on to this string, orchestrating this opera of madness. I ask myself if it even matters whether my premonitions see the light of the day? In 200 years, maybe 300, this will all be extinct. You and me, and perhaps what spawns after you. You and I are a speck, holding an inconsequential space, trying to give this machine somewhat of a form. The machine roars forward, with or without us. This massive clout of 'what ifs' and 'what nots' brewing in my brain, swirling and swimming around in my being, this is all ethereal. We are following an unstoppable train. Does it matter what the tone of the timeline is? Does it matter what hymn it sings and to whom? I apologize for being an inconsiderate minimalist. The moments and minutes we live through can be quiet as well. Does that change the fact that time goes on, and that you and me, play our parts in this machine and propel it towards an uncharted end? Are my thoughts any different from what I feel when we touch? At the end, isn't it all just an imperceptible image of a memory etched somewhere in crypt of my brain? I'm being too inquisitive and I'm asking too many questions. I feel like you could have been here today, but you weren't, and even if you were, when I wake up tomorrow you would just be a memory that I can access, but never the person I can hold. Why does it matter how we stride through these moments? How selfish can we be? If all memories are the same, why does it matter how we create them? Can't I creat an alternative narrative, where I have you, and you narrate our story, and we pass through that moment and create a memory that is complete, devoid of all the dirt? I may appear desperate. I think that is what I am. I do not fear my future. I fear my past. I do not fear what I have yet to live through, but I fear what I may have to live with. None of that changes the fact that none of it matters. The machine keeps rolling, and in another 200 years, there will be another you, and another me, and they will talking about another 200 years in the future, dreading a time that they have not yet seen.
snowghoul
dededos
areudirty
pixelskylines
