Trees are shedding leaves, days are running away and I’m having nightmares again. A thought has planted its seed in my brain and I’ve never felt a stronger urge to kill.
I don’t get to see you often enough.
When I do, I can’t help but notice it’s getting harder for you to breathe. There’s really nothing I wouldn’t give to hear you tell me your story right now. Far too many regrets and not enough time. I should be prepared. Still, I shove that thought to the back of my mind. For how long? One day, the seed will grow into something I don’t want to believe. One day, there will exist a world
The air is colder now and I think back to November last year. It rained and rained and I wouldn’t leave my room. I couldn’t explain why. Then I screamed in your arms and through tears I begged you not to hate me, while you held me so tight I thought you’d break my bones.
I think back to getting up in the middle of the night to catch an early flight, and how I almost didn’t leave because I couldn’t fit my stuff into a plastic bag. I was sure I would die. But I didn’t.
I think back to cheap hostel breakfasts and days spent walking. The air wasn’t as cold. The rain, it had a different taste far away from home.
For those three short days in November, I was me again.
I’m tired of me and I’m tired of everyone else. Empty talks and names that don’t mean anything. Things that pass for entertainment. Noise and lights and glaring screens that dull my brain.
Things change, the world spins, and I feel stuck. I desperately want us to be the people who would walk aimlessly for hours until we walked out of town and into the fields of green. We wouldn’t worry about food or sleep or how we’d get back. We would just be. Or maybe we’re exactly who we were. Maybe I’m still the same me and you’re still the same you. Maybe for all these years, I’ve been trying too hard to make our stories click.
I’m writing this while you’re sitting across the room from me, and it hurts to admit that I’d rather write about this moment than live in it. When you’re not here, I paint your picture in my head and I put all these wonderful words in our mouths. Maybe I like you better when you’re an illusion.
Leaves crunch beneath my feet. There’s laughter in the distance, but I’m somewhere else again. It’s always me and them. And then there’s your voice in my head, but I choose not to listen.
It’s another Friday and I don’t know where the other days went. My weeks consist of Mondays and weekends, and nothing in between.
On Monday, the sun came out and the air smelled of freshly cut grass. Almost as if summer decided to pop back for a day. I read a book on a bench in a park and some guy was reading on the bench next to mine. We were two human beings putting the reality on hold just to plunge into their own different worlds and be lost in them. For a while, it felt nice to pretend I was connected to someone. But soon the sun was gone and it got colder. He got up and left.
Today’s foggy and grey. I watch you fall asleep at your desk in class. Then I get mad at myself for watching.
On my way home, there’s this one moment, right before the traffic lights change. The busy street is almost completely quiet. It must last for a split second, but it feels like everything has stopped and it’s only me that’s still moving. Too soon, the moment is gone and the world races forward, and I’m left behind again.
It’s always me and them. And your voice in my head.
I’m tired of chasing you in my thoughts. Night after night you escape, melting into the shadows, and I’m left gasping for oxygen. The faint breath that keeps me here keeps me from finding you. If I could reach through the fog and grab onto something, the barriers would fall and I would stand strong.
I’d be the one you run to.
We’re always running from, or after, something. We find comfort in nothing. Do you ever get tired of that? Last night, I watched you dance in the fire and some part of me wanted to save you; some other part itched to join.
I tried to look for my words in the sea, with no luck. No swimming allowed due to some bacteria contamination. So I burned my toes on the sand.
In the evening I watch another sunset without you and take a hundred useless photographs. All of them the same; not one of them captures what I see. The seagull on a wave. Water rising, falling. Ten different colours of the sky. Reflections. Gradients. The half moon. I try to memorise the picture with hungry eyes, but soon I’ll lose the smells, the sights, the tastes. I’ll try to repaint the scene on the back my eyelids and curse my incapability to see properly.
An inaccurate memory sparked by the collection of seashells on the windowsill. Prone to breaking. Like me.
The sea, the breeze, the sun, the heat, the grains of sand under my feet. Pen in hand. I try.
Am I the only one or does the moon also get lonely from time to time?
You’d ask, how can you feel so
when you’ve got all the cars that move past your window with all that noise of all the people with all their stories, all their worries, all the things on their minds that keep them awake some nights and some nights their beds full of broken dreams, oozing from their troubled heads as they try to sleep their lives away.
I ran away today. Rented a bike and went. My legs were crying for rest, but I pedalled on, moving past the discomfort, melting into the green around me as the blue changed its hue above my head. I moved as if in a trance, my eyes hungry – I hope that they never stop swallowing the world; that this will never be enough to fill me up. I hope I never get satisfied but stay forever starved. I hope I never get used to the taste of the world and it never runs out of flavour; fresh and unknown.
I ran away today, plunged into a different reality, one not drowned in concrete and dreams that fade, far away from the grim faces and the everyday masquerade.
And I wondered, how do places like this manage to exist for years without needing anyone to know that they’re there?
One step at a time – time measured in heartbeats. Slow and steady harmony, every movement guided by the breath. In and out. Tense, relax. One foot after the other, placed thoughtfully, not rushed. Noticing the sounds, the smells, the sights; the crickets singing in the dark; the black matter alive, sharing this night with me.
How lucky am I and yet how pained; overwhelmed by the sensations – unmatched by any human creations… So what could I possibly dare create? Yet still I try and try I will – one pen stroke at a time, one thought savoured slowly as I amble through the night.