"Dry like Sahara" I think quietly out loud to myself, my rock tongue grinding the sandpaper surface of my mouth. I look around the room through a watercolor painting. My body glitches and skips as it stumbles over a mind too slow. I feel nothing but it's heavy, the emptiness of a room too cluttered to be clear. I am empty by choice. The more the room blurs the more clear it becomes; what are important milestones in the story of my life and what are commercials to fill the gap. I'm drowning. Why am I so thirsty if I'm drowning? So much disappointment in this room. So much missing I haven't done. Too many memories uncreated, too many places unexplored. Why is the world so dark at night? How do mothers kill their children? How does the wolf not see the suffering of its prey? How do cheaters become legends while the working man is poor? Where do fires go when they burn out? How do we decide what's warm? The world beyond the mirror holds the fire... and memories yet to be made. It's where we store our hopes and dreams, and where we hide our pain. Do our pets realize they are slaves? Will they rise against us one day? Being sick is such a burden, constant pain is such a burden. What a waste of a perfectly healthy soul. A blemish on the world which only punishes. Why do people go out of their way to cause pain? It's as if not too many people can be happy or else the whole system fails. There is no need for war we can all live under our own Gods. What am I doing with my life? Why is the air so tangible? It's crushing me, I'm trapped, I'm going to disappear. Memories in a book, a binder, I should have kept a journal with feathers and flowers and lipstick stains as my own museum of what it was to be me. I want a daughter, my daughter, who I can mold as she grows to be caring, to work hard and help other people, to study and live and travel. A daughter to do everything I love for it would be as if I'm watching a playback of my own life in real time. Coins run the world, money runs the world. How created how man made is humanity. What are colors and why do they fade? Perhaps they live behind the mirror as well. We kill other people we kill other people. Why do we decide? How can we decide? How tragic to be hanged while innocent. Flowers die but are reincarnated. Perhaps the souls recycle themselves and sleep behind the mirror. Perhaps soulmates are real and exist only for each other. Love, hate, lust all so physical so tangible and what of magic? What happens when there's no more room behind the mirror? It may absorb into itself and implode to vast nothingness. Instead of a wild animal feeling no love for each baby each lover, what of love and heartbreak from each and every one. How come music and art can flow through others but not I? What is love? Is there a limit of love you can have in this world? I know the limitless of pain. Pain seeks everyone while love is random and spread out thin. A new chapter of War awaits this Earth. We travel behind the mirror when we are sleeping, neither here nor gone. How strange to need somebody, to lose yourself, surrender. I am anchored. There is more than here, trapped down here, brainwashed down here. we find a way to fix our broken minds, to trick our own thoughts, to create from nothing. Our mi d is as open as the galaxy. We are not a part of something bigger we simply exist as we are, and as we should. Room to grow for us endless room to grow. Laughter and singing behind the mirror, full of music. How can a tangible thing change our 4th wall of sense? Where does sickness go when it heals? How does music speak the language of the soul? Smells are crisp behind the mirror, and every color equals white. Kitten purrs heal the soul. Handwriting as different as fingerprints. Maybe we all have different personalities, more than one soul fighting to be seen. How does the heart mend when it has been broken? Where are positions taken by flame? Where does light go? Heart-Shaped balloons so fragile, deflate over time and burst under pressure. Every relationship is practice for the real thing until it's not. Some need more practice. It echoes behind the mirror and love is so grey...
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis