Thoughts are racing at the speed of light and it’s hard to focus my attention on anything, even more so with a non-existent you in the picture. I keep writing my way through things as if I know what any of that means, when in truth I’m just throwing in some random words, hoping that maybe they could fill the void. But do they ever?
I’ll answer that some other time. I’m in a rush now. Always running. Always being chased. I thought the dreams of jumping out of windows stopped, but maybe it’s just what happens when something becomes part of you – it no longer stands out.
It’s scary to think how many other things I’ve stopped noticing. It’s scary to think how many other things I’ve accumulated inside of me over the years, and it’s even scarier to think how young I still am and how much crap still awaits to absorb itself into my bloodstream.
Maybe that’s why I always choose to write in a language that’s not my native tongue, to distance myself from all that. Don’t ask what. That remains unspecified.
If you could lean over my shoulder and read through all of my frenzied scribblings, you’d tilt your head back and laugh, and I’d start laughing too because none of this makes any sense, but I have to keep going so I can pretend I’m still in control of anything. Except I’m not. And you’re not here to laugh at my insane attempts to create a reality in which my lungs could effortlessly pump air into my body. Not that there’s anything phisically wrong with my lungs.
See, the problem is my head. Or the inside of it, to be more specific. And the problem is also you.
The real problem is that you have failed to be here even though I’ve tried my best to write you into this poor fairy tale I’ve conjured up.
Fairy tales are supposed to be colourful and sprinkled with magic that takes care of the princess and the prince; well, this one is grey and foggy and full of characters no one wants to read about before sleep.
Except I do. Jeopardise my sanity every single night, but I do read all about it on the back of my eyelids before my mind finally shuts down and allows me the luxury of not having to think.
And even then, you’re always almost there. And I almost feel content. Almost, because I still don’t have the words to paint you into this image. Almost, because the words I do have are not nearly good enough to turn this image into the masterpiece I’ve been craving. But I’ll hang onto the almosts and pretend they satisfy my hunger.
Maybe someday I’ll be good enough a liar to believe myself.