no title yet, empty somewhat still

The siren rushed through Trône street on a still early Saturday afternoon and left the street ringing and vibrant with its warring cry.

Five stories above, I heard it shriek into my room through the skylight, slit open—diagonally pointing straight at the empty blue. Despite its noble intent, it failed to shake up my languid mind—still since morning.

The sound became slow and dilated, like when conversations are had underwater, once it had passed house number 215.

What could be so urgent as to call for such a rouse? Surely everything that could ever happen had already happened, and everything that could still happen, would. Repetition was inescapable, and our every move was before-hand sprinkled with the finest layer of redundancy.

Yet it wailed.

over, now

Well why don't you go outside, then?

Go outside, then

Go outside

If you've been here all day then why don't you go outside?

Outside,

then


This doesn't help anymore I'm afraid. Going for a walk only makes me feel 10 times lonelier and it fills the little box in my chest with all my uncried tears and screams.

The sound of my heels on the floor is lonely and paired with no one else's
I had to get gloves, because there is no companion for my cold fingers now
Darling you're gone and I understand it and I'll be patient,
But I don't even have a friend to fill-up my idle, torturous moments of longing for your company, your smiles and your touch

How did I manage? It started well enough,
But now my surroundings are empty and my days even more

Darling, I hope you never know.

I can't shake the sad off

I can't shake the self-pity off

I can't shake the sad off

I was going through old journal entries last night

I wanted it all and I had it all planned out - my life would be composed of nakedness and roadtrips,
of complicit friendships and trust, of wild true love and of accomplishments

I made lists and digital scrap-books of what I needed to remember to do
Of what I couldn't forget

I store them all away though, the moment it all started

I don't quite understand my reasoning for it but I think, I think it went something like this : "Get settled first, you should take the serious things seriously and leave the playthings for when you have free time". If only someone would've told me never to abandon the playthings because the playthings are the only thing that is important and the only thing that could keep you sane and growing and boasting.

I don't know how to get back to them now, see I'm trying I'm writing in this journal again but I have a hundred others that I can't get back to now and what's happened to my writing is this any good the way it is? Should I not be able to draw by now? Where did you go to, singing voice? I also bought a guitar in an attempt to bring back my callous fingers and I'm wearing a ring on my left index finger that is too big and slips off and I'm telling myself it's okay because you just need to keep trying but I look in the mirror and I can't shake the sad off. My reflection moves in slow motion and it's screaming at me to DO something, d o anything, it's easy and you're a coward if you keep letting your life run in slow-motion but then why didn't you start earlier? Shouldn't you be able to draw, dance, recite, knit, write?

What have you been doing all these years?
Where did you put your head in?

Well I'm afraid that the hole is closing in and it won't let your head through it no more
It'll stay in savoury blackness and it's insides will drip out of it and it'll be dripped dry

Maybe I have been raised to be sad
Un-developed film
Under-developed limbs
A collection of almosts
Making up for a whole of nothing

Quick, we'll be late for class,
Have you payed though, dad?

Maybe I have been raised to find
That I was made to be
That I meant to grow up
And stay incomplete

Maybe I have been raised hole'd
Meant to have every substance
Seep through my porous surface
Drip onto the cold linoleum tiles
That make up the floor
Of the room that always contains me

Maybe I was always meant to have four walls around me
Containing me
Maybe one day the door will solidify
Can it be covered with soft pads?
Made to contain the mad?

My thoughts that make up my brain are much too hard to uncoil and they have to stay ravelled and tight; lest you turn your eyes onto my

Under-developed limbs and ask me my age
"How old are you?"
"How old, are, y o u?"

God is not done with you
Crawl back into the womb that made you
Build God
Make her give you what you lack
Ask her to please, seal the pores so that you can keep in the light

"Can you seal up my pores so I can keep in the light?"